


This Harbour (that we call home)

by nekosmuse, verilyvexed



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: 1960s, Additional Warnings Apply, Alternate Meeting, Alternate Universe - Canon, Charles is a bird, Concentration Camp Survivor Syndrome, Crane Wife AU, Homophobia, Isolation, Love at first flight, M/M, Mystery, Norway (Country), PTSD, Powered, Reverse Big Bang Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-07-07
Packaged: 2017-11-09 08:07:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 73,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/453240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nekosmuse/pseuds/nekosmuse, https://archiveofourown.org/users/verilyvexed/pseuds/verilyvexed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's hard not to get swept away by Charles' enthusiasm.  The idea of finding others like him--of belonging--is seductive, but it is the thought of spending his life at this man's side that decides it.  Crane or man, Erik cannot help but fall into Charles' orbit.</p><p>An alternate meeting loosely based on the Japanese folktale, The Crane Wife.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the amazingly talented and absolutely wonderful verilyvexed. I cannot thank her enough for providing such incredible inspiration, or for putting up with my constant squee about her art and [this prompt](http://nekosmuse.com/crane/CRANEWIP2.jpg). It has been an absolute pleasure working with her.
> 
> Art Masterpost can be found here: [Art Masterpost](http://verilyvexed.livejournal.com/12287.html)
> 
> This is an alternate meeting story (AU-canon) with comic backgrounds (aka no Shaw) and some non-powered secondary characters. Story loosely based on the Japanese folktale, [The Crane Wife](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Crane_Wife), and the Decemberist's album under the same name.
> 
> Warning: Contains darker themes related to the Holocaust and Concentration Camp Survivor Syndrome with lingering PTSD. This story also includes era-appropriate homophobia. There are references to non-sexualized ornithophilia.
> 
> Thanks: Many thanks go to my two alpha readers, Afrocurl and Pookaseraph, as well as my beta, Agewa, for helping to shape this story into what it is. I couldn't have done it without any of them.

  


~*~

There isn't enough light these days for a proper shave. The sun is taking longer and longer to creep above the horizon, the days slowly compressing until they seem eclipsed by night. He's not far enough north for polar night--not quite, and that's still a month off--but winter's icy tendrils already creep across the land, heralding her arrival in biting frost and still-dark mornings.

Technically he doesn't need the light; could shave with his eyes closed, the metal of the blade as familiar as his appendages. It's not something he likes to think about. Instead he's fired up the generator, even though he's running low on fuel and its incessant humming makes his teeth ache.

The light above the bathroom sink pulses as the generator struggles. Erik stares at his reflection; watches the stark lines of his face fade into passing shadow, and then resurface, highlighted by the bright flare of light. He shaves a stripe down his left cheek, rinses the blade in the sink's shallow pool of water, and then tips his head to the side.

He's been up for hours now, sleep eluding him. It's the weather, he thinks; dull grey cold carrying memories on icy wind. They're nearing the end of the season, the long expanse of winter ahead, with only the ghosts of his past for company. They manifest as nightmares, Erik waking, often in a cold sweat to stare up at the open rafters and wonder why God--if he even exists--sought fit to let him live when so many others had to die.

He runs the blade down the side of his neck.

The generator's kind enough to wait until he's done to sputter and then die, the bulb above his head flickering before falling into darkness. He sets aside the razor and reaches for his pre-dampened cloth. Without the generator, the pump doesn't work either. Erik washes his face, drains the sink and then retreats into the main room.

There's enough light to see by now, the world painted in the false glow of pre-dawn. It makes his cabin look larger than it actual is; elongates shadows and casts corners into darkness. The sharp, sweet scent of wood smoke fills the room, overpowering everything, even his shaving cream. Erik sets his damp cloth beside the stove and then lifts one of its lids; breaks down what's left of the wood so that the fire will go out. When he's done, he carries his used teacup to the kitchen and sets it inside the wash basin.

There's nothing else keeping him, his morning routine efficient and well-practiced, so he shrugs into his overcoat, moss green that reminds him of the wool dress his mother wore their last day in hiding. It's too early for a scarf, but he loops one around his neck anyway and slips his hands into fingerless gloves. He'll replace all of it once he gets to the docks, but it's a long walk and already he feels the need to huddle beneath his blankets, near the stove's lingering heat. He spent too many years half frozen as a child: he has a tolerance for it, but he doesn't like it.

Outside, there's a warm breeze coming in from the west, carrying with it the scent of salt and sea. It's an illusion, a temporary reprieve before the temperature nose dives. He lets it fill his lungs all the same, the taste of sea-air sharp on his tongue. It reminds him strangely of home, a sign he's been here too long.

Not that long, he thinks with a rueful shake of his head, though he knows that's not true. The longer he stays the more this place reminds him of the seaside village he grew up in as a boy, before his family's flight to Poland; before the camps and the war. But Norway is nothing like Germany, for all there are similarities, and besides, he's not interested in anything approximating the country of his birth. Germany, for him, died long before the Soviets and Americans carved it in two. The Nazis burned it to ash.

The sun is cresting the horizon as he leaves the rocky foothills, the boundary of his property marked by a line of red pines. The land slopes beyond, dirt-track road spilling into the village below. From this vantage point, it's easy to make out the whole town. It seems so much smaller when viewed from above, clusters of chestnut red and mustard yellow houses framing the small inlet harbour. Across the fjord, towering cliffs, not yet framed by sunlight, loom like black walls, making him feel like he's living on the edge of nowhere.

To most of the world's population, he probably is, but Erik likes the isolation. There's hardly anyone about, especially at this hour, and those he does pass--mostly men like him, heading to the docks--give little more than polite nods, content to leave Erik to his business if he leaves them to theirs. It's part of the reason he settled here. He's spent a good portion of his life travelling and this marks the first time he's found a people reticent enough to suit his needs.

He still finds himself growing increasingly tense as civilization springs up around him, the occasional house becoming clusters and then groups. The town seems impossibly large now that he's in the middle of it. The street narrows, buildings looming, the scent of salt and sea and gutted fish growing stronger. In another month this place will grow quiet, the lull of the off-season filling the locals with impatience even as they take the opportunity to rest, but for now it still hums with activity, the end of the season hanging over their heads. Already the smaller boats are off the water, the sea dark and choppy, a danger to anyone who thinks to underestimate her.

Erik knows better than that.

He remembers the stories his father used to tell, and his grandfather before that. Sailing is in his blood, his father used to say, even when he was landlocked, chained to the dockside factories. It seems fitting Erik ended up here, after all was said and done.

Light fans through the streets now, caressing the rough-stone ground, highlighting clumps of moss in yellow-green. It'll fade to brown soon, and then disappear beneath a blanket of white. Not today, though, the sun still holding a little warmth. He lets it infuse heat into his breast, temporary warmth that will vanish once they're out on the water.

He can see the docks through the line of houses, boats sitting ready for launch, the pier a hive of activity. The true arrival of morning has filled the streets, people moving with intent and purpose. Erik passes a woman already hanging her wash; a man carting nets back to the ships.

He exchanges a few more nods, though mostly he's ignored. The townsfolk know him, however much he's a foreigner. But foreigners are growing increasingly common these days; the war has displaced so many. They see him as a good man to have on a ship, one who keeps to himself and doesn't put his nose in where it isn't wanted. They've got their own lives to worry about, and while Erik may be an oddity--an exiled man with no real background--he's one they can live with.

Raven is the exception to the rule.

She calls his name as soon as she spots him, Erik's mouth pressing into a thin line even as his jaw clenches. He offers her a curt nod, not encouragement, simply decent manners--he has vague memories of his mother teaching him manners--but she takes it as an invitation. There's an awkward gait in his step as he slows to allow her to reach his side. The smile she offers him is both mischievous and friendly. It reminds Erik painfully of his sister.

"Good morning, Erik," she says in perfect English. She's an American by birth, displaced like him, though unlike him she seems to think they share a bond because of it.

"Good morning, Raven," he answers, his English polished though hesitant.

Her smile widens. She gestures over her shoulder, to the two-story house she's come from, the lower floor a dry-goods store, her own, the only place in town that sells sundries and staples, the kind of stuff that gets shipped in once or twice a year. Her latest shipment came last night. Erik knows; he helped unload the boat.

"I set aside some things for you," she says when it becomes clear Erik's not going to open the conversation.

He used to worry, especially in his first year, that she stayed for him, but he doesn't think that's the case anymore. He thinks sometimes she stays because this is the closest thing she's known to a home, Raven once married to local. She's widowed now, her husband five years lost at sea. Erik knows more about grief than he's willing to admit, so instead of making an excuse to leave, he gives a polite nod and gestures her inside.

Her store is filled with bits of metal--screws and nails and coils of wire and tin cans and odd pieces of scrap. Erik is acutely aware of it, which is perhaps why he avoids coming here whenever possible. It sings to him, the same way the metal hulls of ships sing to him. He could close his eyes and point out the tiniest bolt; call it to his side without a moment's hesitation.

He has no idea why he can do what no one else can. A lingering curse, he sometimes thinks, for whatever he did to deserve his life thus far.

Raven, by contrast, is everything he will never be. She has a family--a mother and father and two sisters, all back home in America--and an adventurous spirit, her early life mostly untainted by tragedy. There are days when Erik hates her as much as he envies her.

"I asked for any English titles they had lying around, though I wasn't sure they'd find anything," Raven is saying, Erik only then realizing he has his eyes closed; that he's standing in the middle of her store, mentally tallying the coins in her register. He blinks and steps towards her; follows her gaze to the countertop where a pile of battered paperbacks are stacked neatly against the register.

He doesn't recognize the titles, and if he had to judge from the covers, he'd say a few aren't intended for their literary merit. He smiles at them all the same, books the one luxury he allows himself. When he glances back up to catch Raven's eye, she's watching him nervously.

"I'll take them, unless there are any you want," he says, sounding far too gruff for how grateful he is. She must understand, because she smiles, relief colouring her cheeks a subtle pink.

"I already went through the pile and took out the ones I wanted. Sorry," she confesses, which earns her one of Erik's genuine but rare smiles.

"You don't have to apologize," he says, and in that moment she looks so much like his sister--the scant few memories Erik has remaining--that something seizes in his chest, tightness stealing his breath until it physically hurts to breathe. Raven's expression shifts; becomes one of concern.

Erik swallows against the impending attack; stomps down his body's instinct and reins in the memory.

"Do you mind if I pick these up on my way home?" he asks. Raven gives a brief nod. "I'll need some other things." He hands over a list then, written in his crooked hand, trusting Raven to gather the items on it; to have them ready for when he returns. She accepts the scrap of paper gingerly, concern still written across her features.

Erik doesn't answer her unasked question. He doesn't offer false platitudes or expressions of gratitude. He doesn't even say goodbye. He merely turns on his heel and leaves the store, the day now truly begun, Erik overdue for departure.

When he reaches the docks, someone hands him a cable of rope. Erik carries with him to his boat, passing some of the smaller, single-man crafts to get to Azazel's larger trawler. It's not the largest boat in the harbour, but it is close, Azazel unapologetic in his attempts to commercialize what has long been a local, traditional practice.

Unlike Raven and Erik, the locals see Azazel as somewhat of an invading species, though they treat him with as much magnanimity as they do everyone else. He's a displaced Russian, having moved here after the war, but before the Iron Curtain sprang into existence. There's no going back now, though Erik doubts he'd want to. He's a good man to work for; fair and honest, and he doesn't expect anything more than a hard day's work. Erik can appreciate that, though mostly he appreciates that Azazel doesn't ask too many questions, or stare too hard at Erik's forearms whenever he's got his sleeves rolled up, something that doesn't happen often.

He gives a gruff nod now as Erik jumps the space between the dock and the boat, landing on her grated deck with a resounding clang. Erik sets the coil of rope down on the starboard side, changes, and then heads for the rigging, nodding once to the third in Azazel's crew; a greenhorn, new this season.

Daylight's a short window these days. It's almost not enough to make going out worth their while, though Azazel talks often about other ships in other places, heading out in the dark of morning; coming home in the dim light of dusk. Erik's not so sure Azazel's confident enough to navigate these waters without at least a little light, but the world is changing, navigation systems and radar no longer restricted to the world's militaries. It's a strange thing to witness, especially here, on the edge of all things, but stopping it would be like trying to stop a freight train. Change will come whether they want it to or not.

The ship pitches heavily when they finally get turned into the current, Erik falling easily into the work. He never got the chance to work on the boats when he was a boy, his grandfather having fallen too old to take him out, and his father long since having moved onto land, but the memory of it is in his blood, an ancient thing, passed on from generation to generation.

He turns as they slip from the harbour and watches the town dwindle from view. Somewhere, beyond the jagged hills, his tiny cabin sits, cold and lonely, awaiting his return. In the sky above the harbour, flocks of cormorants and gulls circle endlessly, already looking for scraps. A larger bird, graceful in a way the others are not, flies overhead. Erik watches it for a moment; recognizes it as the crane he's seen only recently, as displaced on this island as he is. It circles out of sight, disappearing across the fjord. Erik turns back to the stare at the water, rock giving way to horizon, the fjord spilling into the sea.

The work is hard and dangerous, the deck soon slick with misting spray, ice forming across his skin wherever salty water has landed and froze. His eyes are white with it before they've even reached the deeper waters, his fingers numb from cold. He hauls ropes and reconfigures rigging, the boat rolling from side to side, cresting waves with stomach lurching drops. He's seen newer men--greenhorns--lose their breakfast over the side at such waves, however tame he finds them. Erik merely shifts his stance against them, remains unmoved by their rolling.

The land is a distant dot, framed by sunlight before Azazel orders the nets dropped. It's heavy work, Erik's muscles straining to keep from being swept overboard by their weight. His fingertips have long-since calloused over, rough pads protecting him from the razor-sharp bite of the rope. As soon as the nets are out, the trawler comes around, pulling them tight, Erik reeling his side in to keep them taut against the boat's turning. They move forward.

The fish are done spawning, so the catch won't be as large as it is in the height of the season, but the nets soon grow heavy with mackerel. There are other boats on the horizon, occupying the path the mackerel use to return to their spawning ground; a journey that will take them most of the winter. Erik stares out at them now, bits of colour breaking the monotony of the black water. Their metal shines like beacons.

At Azazel's order, he starts reeling in nets.

There's something hypnotic about the process, the physical work distracting him from thought. It reminds him strangely of his adolescence, his work as sonderkommando requiring the same divorcing of thought from action, though for entirely different reasons. He finds it fitting that something that was once a survival mechanism now bridges the gaps between hours, allows him to move seamlessly about his job.

The catch, when they spill it on deck, is larger than they were expecting, the greenhorn giving an excited cheer, even as fish slide between his legs. Anyone not used to the stink of it would find it unpleasant, but Erik breathes deep, takes in sea and earth and the raw power of nature. He has smelled worse--far worse--the day's catch a familiar, comforting scent. He joins Azazel and the greenhorn in sorting through the still struggling fish, discarding any that don't meet their criteria; shoveling the others into the open hatches, to rest in the hold below. When they're done, the nets go back out.

The morning passes much the same: the nets go out, they come back in; they go back out. They break only for a midday meal of cold fish stew and half-stale bread. Erik eats his alone, seated on the trunk that holds his greatcoat, bracing himself against the rocking of the boat. When he's done, he stands and stretches; looks out over the horizon at the faint imprint of Norway's rocky shore. The sky is heavy with winter clouds.

He has no idea why he came here, his wandering taking him across Europe before turning north, but this is the first place the land seemed unblemished; where the air didn't taste like ash. Erik's had enough ash in the back of his throat to last him a lifetime.

After lunch, they move the boat into a shoal of fish so thick their shadows pierce the water. Azazel is smiling, the last few weeks yielding little. They're making up for it now, though it's like struggling to win a race they've started two weeks too late. They stay out longer than usual, the sun a pale ball of yellow light kissing the water before Azazel orders them back in.

Erik's sweaty and exhausted, coated in fish guts, soaked through with water and salt when the shoreline comes back into view. Azazel points them to the mouth of the fjord, the sea having calmed somewhat, but the heavy clouds suggest tomorrow will bring rougher weather. Coming in, the current is against them, tidal flow adding time to their return so that by the time the harbour comes back into view, the sky is painted in pink twilight.

Erik moves to the bow, steadies the boat against the current, something that requires effort, though he tries not to show it. He knows what the others would say if they knew. It was one thing to be a Jew in Nazis Germany. It is another to be whatever he is. He's never met anyone else who can do what he does, and that makes him an anomaly. People fear anomalies.

Azazel chalks their smooth passage up to luck; clasps Erik on the shoulder and tells him in broken Norwegian that today was a good day. Erik nods and lets go of the hull, the inlet's waters calm; serene compared to the turmoil of the ocean.

There are people on the docks waiting for them, Erik throwing a line to a man who secures it to one of the dock-ties. It takes a long time to dock a boat, especially one as big as Azazel's, the process slow and monotonous. By the time it's secure, the day weighs on his shoulders, Erik exhausted and more than ready to crawl into bed. But there is still work to be done, the men from the docks already climbing onto the boat to help get the holds emptied.

Erik leaves them to it; makes his circuit of the ship, checking her over with eyes and hands and his odd affinity for metal. By the time he's done, the holds are empty, the greenhorn in the middle of scrubbing down the decks and Azazel is loading tomorrow's supplies. Erik helps him with the last of it and then turns to the wash station.

He stinks of fish, a smell that never really leaves, but he's used to it and a quick turn at the basin removes the worst of it. He leaves his slicker suit and boots in a pile with the others before slipping back into his shoes and greatcoat.

The sun has well and truly set by the time he leaves, some coin in his pocket and a satchel of fish to take home and cure. He detours by Raven's, politely refusing her invitation to stay for supper, Erik wanting only to get his supplies home so that he can crawl into bed and begin the process anew tomorrow. She accepts his rejection gracefully, though he can tell she's disappointed. He has no idea what she wants from him. He's not husband material if that's what she's thinking. He's not even friend material if that's all she wants.

Sometimes he thinks she just likes that he speaks to her in English.

"You had gasoline on your list," she says as she helps him load his sundries onto a borrowed cart. "I had some time, so I stopped off at the station and filled a few canisters." She gestures over her shoulder, to the red tins sitting propped against the side of her store. Erik frowns.

"What do I owe you?" he asks, digging into his pocket, already counting out his kroner.

She hesitates briefly before giving him a total; Erik added the price of the gasoline to her bill.

She doesn't comment as he leaves, but he can feel her watching him, eyes boring into the back of his head. What would she think, he wonders, if she knew what he could do? Worse; what would she do?

Ahead, the light of the town is swallowed by the dark of the wilderness, Erik stepping towards it, wanting then only to be away from prying eyes and the incessant press of humanity. He is not a man meant to live amongst others. His isolation is an act of kindness.


	2. Chapter 2

A line of traps circles his property, Erik crouching next to one of his snares now. Hare tracks are visible in this morning's dusting of snow. They dart around the device, its noose remaining stubbornly empty. Erik pulls his lip between his teeth and considers.

It could be coincidence, lucky chance, but there's a clear change in the tracks' direction, like the hare knew what was ahead and altered course. Erik traces its steps back and finds the pivot point. Did something spook it, or was Erik careless and it caught his scent? It's too late to worry about now, but he wants to know for next time. This is still new to him, the skill undeveloped. It would be nice to pass a winter with more than just fish for meat.

Erik pockets the trap, no longer content with its location. Sparse patches of white cover the ground, more tracks visible now that he's looking for them. A fox has been through recently, which is probably what spooked the hare. Most of the snow is criss-crossed by bird tracks; the larger ones clearly gulls from the harbour, drawn by the scent of his recent catch.

There are other bird tracks, ones he doesn't immediately recognize, these larger than the gulls'. Erik scrutinizes them for several seconds and then stands; glances back the way he has come.

He can barely make out his cabin from this vantage point, but a tendril of smoke highlights its location. He's got a pot of fiskesuppe on, tonight's supper. The scent of smoke catches his nose, Erik flinching before he realizes it's nothing like the smoke in the camps. That scent was nauseating, acidic and putrid, like leather being tanned over a flame. Wood smoke is sweet; clean in comparison. The smoke from the camps was thick enough to linger on the tongue. Erik chokes against its memory.

He tears his gaze from the house, turning to follow the rocky shelf that frames his property. He takes several steady, deep breaths, the air heavy with pine and frost, before his stomach settles.

The Baltic shield cuts across the land here, giant outcrops of rock marring the landscape. Erik skitters down the side of one, a loose bit of rock crumbling beneath his feet. It's a careless maneuver, but he's tired, his night plagued by dreams, a week of hard labour not enough to soothe his inner demons. He's back on the water tomorrow, which doesn't leave him much time for leisure, something Erik tries to avoid at all costs anyway. Better to fill his days with the monotony of survival than succumb to yesterday's festering wounds.

Beyond the last of the rocks, the land stretches out unobstructed. Even the trees are further apart, Erik on the cusp of the tree line. Further north they dwindle away completely, until there is only rock and snow. Here, a handful of spruce and pine dot the land, while the skeletal frames of their deciduous cousins stand as temporary tombstones. Erik reaches another of his traps, this one empty too, though there are no tracks to demonstrate its faults. He moves on to the next.

The sun's a golden ball midway up the horizon by the time he's finished a circuit of his property. None of his traps prove fruitful, though he hasn't given up hope. He climbs back up the steep embank of the shield, his cabin coming into view. It's startlingly remote from this angle, a tiny log-framed house in the middle of nowhere. Framed in sunlight, it looks less utilitarian and more rustic in the soft light of late morning. There are additional tracks across his front lawn--fox and pine marten and bird--and two gulls sit atop the structure that shelters his wood. They watch him warily, Erik ignoring them as he moves around the side of the house.

He stumbles across another of those peculiar bird tracks from earlier. He's gotten good at reading tracks--something that's mostly self-taught, though he has vague memories of sitting crouched in an alley, an elderly man kneeling in the dirt, birch stick in hand. _This is a wild boar, and this is a wolf_ , he'd say, drawing the tracks and then wiping them away. Erik immediately recognizes the memory from his time in the ghetto. He couldn't have been more than seven.

He shakes the memory off; narrows his gaze at the tracks, remembering then the crane he saw above the harbour, though he can't imagine what would bring it here of all places. Erik wonders then why he cares. He tears his gaze from the tiny tracks; continues to the back of the cabin.

His generator sits against the back outside wall, a bright green thing newly refueled this morning. Erik crosses to its side, flips it on and pulls the choke. It takes a good three yanks of the pull chord before the thing hums to life, loud and deafening when he's standing right next to it. It rumbles through the surrounding area, reverberating off the rock, the ground beneath his feet vibrating. The sharp cry of a gull tells Erik he's scared off his visitors. The stink of gasoline fills his nose. He can still feel the slick of it on his hands from when he filled the tank this morning.

He hits the pump house next, the scent of damp moss a welcome distraction from the gas. He has to squat down and extend his reach, twisting awkwardly into the back of the house to reach the switch. Erik yanks it to the side, electricity sweeping from the generator to the breaker to the pump. The pump gurgles to life, sputtering several times before it falling to its metronomic pumping.

He wipes his hands on his pants, wet from the pipe's condensation, stands and heads into the cabin.

The lit stove means the front room is exceedingly warm, heat infusing his skin, chasing away this morning's chill. It makes it easy to strip off boots and coat, though it also sears his lungs; dry heat thick with smoke, catching in the back of his throat.

Erik swallows as he moves into the kitchen; tiny and tucked away, the woodstove between it and the main living space. There's a low counter along the back wall with single sink he can fill with rust-coloured water. He crosses to it now and turns on the tap, the scent of sulphur filling the air. The water sputters, air bubbles caught in the pipes. Erik lets the water run clear and then wets his hands, acutely aware of the iron in the water.

There's a bar of yellowed soap on the sink's lip, little more than a sliver now, but he'll use it until it's gone, its replacement tucked away along with the other supplies he got from Raven. The scent of lemon catches his nose as he lathers his hands. He doesn't have a hot water tank--there's no real need for one, his hands numb from a morning outside and the water brisk, but there is something to this ritual, something too long denied that Erik's come to appreciate, so he takes his time, cleans around each of his nails, scrubs the back of his knuckles. He hasn't always had clean hands--hasn't always been given the option-- so he embraces the luxury now that he has it.

When his hands are clean, Erik shuts off the tap and then dries his hands on a wrinkled tea towel. He turns his back to the sink.

In the light of day, there is something decidedly appealing about this place, sparse though it is. There's a tiny table and two chairs in the kitchen, one of the chairs is turned around to face into the main living space. There's an old steamer trunk, tucked beneath a window that he tends to use for storage. There's a pile of sweaters draped across it now, all in need of repair, a project he's been putting off until the winter, when he's cooped up inside with little to do. Next to the trunk is a battered bookshelf, in need of replacement, and next to that are his nightstand and his bed. It's far more than he's ever had before.

The scent of the still-cooking stew reminds him of why he came in in the first place, Erik turning back to the stove. He serves himself a bowl of the stew, enough left over for dinner again, taking it to the table with a chunk of coarse bread and a tin of peaches. He's in the process of cramming a piece of bread into his mouth when a resounding crash echoes from outside.

It startles him badly enough that he chokes on his bread, Erik coughing for several long seconds before he gets to his feet, already bolting towards the door. He doesn't bother with his shoes, but unbidden his rifle flies into his hand, dragged there by its barrel. He'll reprimand himself for that later; for now he's out the door, wooden porch cold beneath his feet, the rifle coming up to eye level as he scans the surrounding area.

He startles a couple of whitethroats; they take to the air, drawing his sight, Erik angling the rifle towards them before registering what they are. He exhales, though his heart is still racing, the world seeming to close in around him. Sweat beads his upper lip, his body starting to shiver now, part from cold, part from adrenalin. In his worst nightmares the Nazis surround this cabin; they break down the door and pull him from bed, drag him kicking and screaming back to Auschwitz. The place is little more than a tomb now, but in his nightmares it remains unchanged from the horrors of his childhood.

A loud crash echoes again, this time from his left, like the sound of branches breaking underfoot. Erik automatically turns towards it. His finger itches against the trigger, but it is only a deer, loud and clumsy, the young buck too new to independence to know to avoid civilization. Erik considers shooting it anyway for its meat, but decides against it, the thought leaving something unsettled in the pit of his belly. Instead he lowers the rifle and watches it stumble through the underbrush, heading deeper into the looming hills.

Erik brings a hand to his mouth and wipes at his upper lip.

He huffs against the urge to dissolve into laughter, foolish man that he is, the only thing stopping him the certainty that it would come out dark and bitter. He exhales through his teeth instead, turning to stare up at the sky, not entirely certain what he expects to find, save that he's disappointed when he finds it empty.

Erik heads back inside to finish his lunch. After, he heads outside to chop wood.

He likes chopping wood; likes the steady rhythm in it, likes getting lost in the motion. It's hot work, sweat beading across his brow and dampening the hair at the back of his neck. The temperature has risen since morning, the snow glistening with damp, not quite melting, but sitting very near the cusp. The sun, newly revealed, is warm on his back. Erik pauses after his next swing. He sets the axe on the ground, propped against his chopping block, and pulls off his sweater.

He tosses it in the general direction of his coat and scarf, discarded before he started. It leaves him in only an undershirt, soaked through with sweat. After a moment's hesitation, Erik pulls that off, too, the damp of it making him feel colder than bare skin. He picks up the axe and starts again.

The steady _thwack, thwack_ of the axe echoes off the surrounding rocks, Erik falling into an easy rhythm.

It doesn't take long, the pile at his side growing. He's covered in sweat now. It dampens his armpits; beads of it trailing down his chest and pooling in the small of his back. He pauses to wipe at his brow, hand--tingling from the work--coming away damp. He glances briefly at the sky, finds the sun dipping towards the horizon, and decides he probably has enough.

A brief flicker of movement catching his eye. He watches a large bird beat against the wind, tremendous wingspan framed by a dark, overcast sky, though it is too far away to properly identify. The clouds promise rain.

There's something immensely satisfying in a day of hard work, something his father taught him. Erik's worn and exhausted by the time he gathers his things and heads inside. The fiskesuppe is still warm on the stove, Erik pausing only long enough to wash his hands before serving up a bowl.

He's left the stew so long now that the fish has dissolved into broth, but it's hot and good, so he doesn't particularly mind. He carries the bowl to the table to eat with more of the coarse bread, savouring each bite as it fills him with warmth; renews his spent strength.

Most men he knows would linger after a meal, but Erik's never been made for idle moments. He tidies his mess and then strips out of his things; washes himself with spring-chilled water before slipping into a long-sleeved shirt and long-underwear. He grows anxious as soon as he doesn't have anything to occupy his attention, the lull between this moment and sleep infinitely long. He stokes the fire and paces a bit from room to room, checking windows and exposed bits of pipe, but everything is in order. When he's done, he eyes his bedside table, Raven's collection of new books far more appealing than his pile of battered sweaters.

He pauses then to light the hurricane lamp he keeps on his bedside table, the flame flickering, casting awkward shadows across his walls. When he's done, he heads outside; crosses to the back of the cabin to shut off first the pump and then the generator. He doesn't like to waste the fuel, and he can see no reason to keep the electricity running overnight.

With a final glance up at a dark, overcast sky, he heads inside, toes off his boots and then slips into bed.

With the stove still burning and his quilt drawn tight, his bed is a cocoon of warmth, something Erik still hasn't gotten used to. He burrows into the middle of it, the woodstove popping as the flames consume a knot in the wood. It's a comforting sound, one that is as familiar as it is old. When he was a boy, it was his job to light his parents' stove every morning, Erik waking early to creep down frozen stairs. He took pride in his ability to get it started before his mother woke--she deserved to wake to a warm house. He's surprised the memory has lasted. He clings to it desperately.

He turns to the books on his nightstand.

Raven's book collection isn't anything spectacular--once she got him a copy of Moby Dick, something that took Erik the better part of a month to read, his English still rusty in those days--but there are a few thicker novels, Erik scanning through the pile, trying to decide where to start. In the end nothing grabs his attention, so he simply takes the first off the pile, settling back against his pillows before cracking it open.

He knows as soon as he starts it what kind of novel it is, heat staining his cheeks, though he does not set it aside. He wonders briefly if Raven knew; if she included it intentionally.

He's tempted then to set the book aside, find something to take its place, but he can't remember the last time he succumbed to his more primal instincts. He finds himself skimming ahead, skipping the drier sections, flipping pages until he finds a passage that describes the protagonist sinking into wet heat. It's something Erik hasn't know--something he's not sure he wants to know--but he reads the passage twice, setting aside the book then to lie back on the bed and stare up at the ceiling.

Shadows play across his vision; flickering in time with the light from the hurricane lamp. Erik closes his eyes and tries to picture the soft lines of a woman beneath him. Almost immediately the image shifts; soft curves becoming the protruding bone and sagging flesh he remembers from his childhood. His eyes fly open, Erik shaking his head against the memory.

Unbidden, a new memory surfaces. It plays out against the shadows on his ceiling, Erik flashing back to a time shortly after his liberation, a hay loft his bed, his work tilling fields on a farm in Yugoslavia. He can no longer recall the man's name, only the sight of him, shirtless, skin damp with sweat as he bailed hay into the loft. Erik caught only a glimpse, but that night he took himself in hand, remembering the firm and full flesh of the man's stomach; the broad expanse of his shoulders.

It fills him with shame to remember, though only because he knows exactly what happens to men like him. There were worse fates than being a Jew, though the thought does little to cool his desire. He pulls his lip between his teeth, closes his eyes, and reaches beneath the covers.


	3. Chapter 3

There's only the one road leading through town, passing Raven's store before turning towards the harbour. Erik doesn't particularly want to walk past Raven's store today. He's not in the mood for conversation, but more than that, he doesn't want to discuss the books she sold him.

There's a footpath that picks its way along the shore, at times so narrow he'll be hard pressed to keep from falling into the fjord. Erik takes it anyway. He likes the solitude. There's no one down here this early in the morning. Here, the stillness of nature is far-reaching; the silence of morning deafening.

There's a low fog coming off the water; not thick enough to obscure the black cliffs that frame the fjord, but enough so that getting out to sea may take a little longer. The sky is cloudless, though, the sun only just peaking over the horizon. It's only a matter of time before it crests; burns off the mist and leaves tranquil waters behind.

He's oddly rested, having slept through the night for the first time in what seems like forever. He doesn't want to examine the reasons behind that too much, instead focusing on the placement of his feet, the occasional stone skittering down to splash into the water. It's a fairly sharp drop; he's liable to crack his skull if he isn't careful.

The land begins to taper the closer to the docks he gets, the water looming until he's almost level with it. He can see the boats now, sitting proud on the water, oddly still in the wee hours of morning. That will change soon, the hustle and bustle of the docks more regular than seasons. The ground has evened out, slabs of rock breaking into pebbles; the closest thing the community has to a beach. There are parts of the shore that jut out, where he's seen boys fishing, their eyes locked on the departing ships, a brief glimpse into their futures.

Erik follows the line of one now, his steps slowing and then coming to a stop, a bird catching his attention.

It's the same crane from before--he can't be certain of that, of course, but he can't imagine it would be any other. Cranes aren't exactly commonplace, and they certainly don't stay the winter. Erik frowns as he watches it fishing off the rocky shore, just like the village boys though with beak instead of pole. He steps towards it, not entirely certain why the impulse strikes. The crane glances up, though it makes no move to fly away. It eyes Erik speculatively. Erik freezes.

"It's going to get colder, you know," he says, registering too late the idiocy of talking to a crane, in English of all things, like it might actually understand. He shakes his head, but feels the need to add, "You should fly south. It's that way." He lifts a hand and points; smiles at his own joke, the humour of the situation not escaping him.

The crane continues to stare; its head cocked now, Erik disquieted by the sight. There's something in the crane's gaze that makes him take a step back, Erik shaking his head as soon as he realizes what he's done. The crane looks decidedly unimpressed, the thought so comical Erik can't help but laugh.

It's a brief, muffled chuckle that dies almost as soon as it begins. "Suit yourself," he says when the crane shows no signs of leaving. Erik tears his gaze away; continues along the line of the shore until he reaches the edge of the docks.

He pulls himself up, a couple of people now moving about the boats, checking lines and casting a critical eye to the still rising mist. The cliffs across the harbour are barely visible now. Erik glances back the way he has come and finds the crane still fishing. He turns and heads towards his boat.

He's the first one there, but Erik's seasoned at this now, the process a familiar one; one he's capable of handling on his own. He changes into his gear and then checks the rigging and the nets. He checks the ropes and anchor line. He checks the hull and her holds. He checks her booms and winches. Her metal hums all around him, Erik intimately familiar with every inch. She has some wear near the stern, but nothing that needs pressing attention. Erik will mention it when the season closes: they can haul her out of the water and see to setting her right.

As he walks his circuit, feeling as much as seeing, he lets his hand run along the railing, metal singing beneath his palm. He doesn't have a lot of peace in his life--an impossible thing given the ghosts he lives with--but these are the moments that come close: Erik alone, the scent of the sea heavy in his nose, the hushed lapping of water against the shore, the sharp bite of frost in the air. Erik breathes deep, lets his eyes fall closed and tips his head back. He exhales in a rush.

A throat clears behind him. Erik opens his eyes and glances over his shoulder. The greenhorn has arrived. Erik offers a polite nod and gets one in return. They set to work loading supplies, the greenhorn one of the locals; a young kid of eighteen who spent last year fishing off the shore. He doesn't say anything, treating Erik with both reverence and respect. Erik is his elder, but more than that, he is known for being stern; for being a solid asset in Azazel's crew.

The sun is clearly visible by the time Azazel arrives. It's done nothing to displace the mist. Erik moves to the bow, taking his place along the railing as Azazel gives the order to get them underway.

A line hits the deck, the greenhorn moving to collect it even as the ship rolls forward. She comes about, water cutting across her metal--Erik can feel it; like a lingering caress it brings goose bumps to his flesh. He lets his gaze drift across the water, the crane no longer visible, the mist now obscuring the shoreline. Erik has the strangest feeling it's still there; that it's watching their leaving. A ridiculous notion--foolish--but he squints into the fog all the same, until the vague shapes of land disappear from view.

He turns his gaze back to the water.

He's still acutely aware of the ship, but something else attracts his attention, Erik growing tense, senses coming alert as he scans the water, letting his awareness drift until he catches a bright flare of metal coming towards them.

"Port side," he shouts, Azazel springing into action, no hesitation in his movements. He trusts Erik to do his job, even if he thinks Erik's vision is limited to his eyes. A minute later an unmanned boat emerges from the mist. It's not big enough to cause their ship any damage, but it is adrift and courtesy would dictate they bring it to shore. Azazel follows Erik's called instructions; brings the ship alongside it, nudging it when it might otherwise have crashed.

Azazel and the greenhorn are already leaning over the side, long poles in hand, trying to gather the boat and pull it flush without damaging it. Erik can see it clearly now; a dinghy, battered and dented, though not long in the water. He thinks it must have slipped its moorings and gotten caught in the current.

No one questions who will bring it back, Erik already lowering a rope ladder and then climbing over the railing, clinging to the trawler as he steadies the little boat with his powers. Azazel catches his arm.

"Have someone bring you back," he says, Erik nodding and then lowering himself into the dinghy.

There's a pool of water in the bottom of the boat, the pinhole leak not enough to fill it, but enough to make for a wet ride. Erik's rather grateful he's already wearing his slicker suit. There's a single paddle strapped to one of its sides. Erik doesn't need it--he can steer the boat without it, and far faster than he could row--but he pulls it down all the same; dips it into the water so that anyone watching will think he's rowing.

There's a steady pleasure in propelling the boat forward by its metal alone. His power amazes him as much as it terrifies him. There's anger there, too, disappointment at something given too late. If this had come to him as a child, he might have spared his family their fate. Now all he can do is navigate boats and keep the side of his axe from growing dull. He hides more now than he ever did as a child.

They're not that far out, so it isn't long before the docks come into view. Erik releases his hold on the boat's metal and begins pushing with his ore. He calls out, footsteps echoing in response, dock hands aligning with his position. Someone throws him a line, Erik catching it and using it to pull the boat alongside the pier. It takes entirely too long for someone to climb down into the dinghy.

He recognizes the man who joins him, though there is something in his sharp features that sets Erik on edge. A painful reminder of men he once had the displeasure of knowing. He offers a gruff nod, but doesn't speak, instead dipping his paddle into the water and rowing them back. The man, seasoned in a way Erik's not sure he'll ever be, merely leans against the back of the boat and waits.

Azazel's waiting right where Erik left him, the boat having drifted maybe a couple of feet. Erik calls up; gets another line tossed down. He pulls the boat flush and then hands off the ore, steadying the little dinghy against rocking as he stands. He's up and over the side of the trawler before anyone can register the impossibility of the maneuver. Erik doesn't know anyone else who could manage it without disrupting the boat. It's earned him a reputation for being nimble on his feet.

The dinghy doesn't wait once Erik's on board, and neither does Azazel, already barking orders. Erik jumps straight into his work, the morning's excitement forgotten in the face of his job. They get the boat turned around and headed out to sea, the dinghy having already disappeared into the fog.

The fog does lift, though not until they've breached the fjord and made it into open waters. The sea is clear and tranquil. It makes their job easier, but despite that their first catch is a fraction of yesterdays. Erik hauls up his side of the nets, a scant handful of fish spilling onto the decks. They toss about half that back, Azazel shaking his head. The migration is nearing its end, the pickings slim. Erik watches as Azazel glances north; no doubt considering migrating with the fish.

It's not worth the fuel, so Erik's not surprised when he decides against it; orders them closer to the shore in hopes of finding a school or two in the shallower waters.

It gets a little better, but by the time the sun is sinking their holds are still more than half empty. Azazel's sulking. Erik can tell he's debating the pros and cons of cutting the season short. There are expenses to running a ship, and if the catch isn't enough to cover them, there's no point in doing this. Erik's not particularly looking forward to getting off the water, but he understands; he remembers enough of his grandfather's trade to know how cyclical this industry is.

There's still plenty of light as they navigate the boat back up the fjord, the day still quiet and calm. This morning's fog has dissipated, Erik scanning the shoreline as they approach the harbour. There are a couple of boys standing where the crane was this morning, no poles, so they're not fishing, but they give a shout when they spot Azazel's boat; dart back up the shore and make for the harbour.

Erik frowns as he follows their steps, his eyes coming to rest on the docks, where more people than usual are milling about, watching their approach. His eyes widen when he catches sight of a police boat, no doubt come in from one of the larger communities up the fjord. Cold fear prickles the back of his neck, even knowing he hasn't done anything wrong. It's an ingrained fear of authority figures, his childhood leaving him distrustful of anyone wearing a uniform. He tenses and turns to Azazel.

But Azazel is watching the docks, a frown painted across his face. He has as much reason as Erik to distrust authority, but still he barks an order, turning from whatever is going on in favour of getting the trawler secured.

Erik jumps back into his work, grateful for the distraction. It's easy to get lost in checking the rigging and securing the nets. The officers come aboard the second they're docked, but by then Erik's too busy tying down the ship to pay them much mind. It doesn't appear to matter; they only want to talk to Azazel about the little dinghy they found this morning. Erik feels something loosen in his chest; a blinding sense of relief that leaves him weak-kneed, though he has no reason for it. He finishes his knot and gestures over some dock hands, pointing to the holds.

The officers are gone by the time the holds are empty. Erik strips out of his slicker suit and takes his turn at the wash station. He spends a good five minutes cleaning under his nails, eyeing the police boat that's still docked between a smaller trawler and a motor boat. Whatever they're looking for, they obviously haven't found it.

Erik tears his gaze away, not wanting to be caught staring, even though he's not the only one. He rinses his hands and dries them off on the front of his pants, and then crosses to where Azazel is leaning against the rail--also watching the police boat, along with the two officers who are presently bent over what Erik suspects is a map. At Erik's approach, Azazel glances over his shoulder.

"Are we going out tomorrow?" Erik asks.

"Da," Azazel answers. Erik's not sure why he's surprised. Azazel doesn't like to admit defeat, and yet after today Erik rather assumed he'd call it quits.

He wants to ask about the police; wants to know what they want and why they're here. Instead he nods, collects his coat and scarf, and then takes his pick from the day's catch, securing it inside his satchel. Azazel says nothing, back to staring at the police boat, a frown tugging at his lips. Erik bids him goodnight and climbs from the boat, the greenhorn in the process of scrubbing down the decks.

There's a tense stillness in the air, the town on edge, made paranoid by their visitors. Erik passes several faces he recognizes, though tonight they wear masks of marble, inscrutable in the fading light of twilight.

There's still enough light yet to pick his way back along the shore, Erik still avoiding the main road--still avoiding Raven. He climbs down from the docks and follows along the pebble beach until he reaches the jutting outcrop, free of both boys and crane. The urge to linger here strikes him with a suddenness he wasn't expecting, Erik exhaling against it, pushing on until the beach is replaced by rocky shoreline.

The easy day on the water means he isn't as tired as he usually feels. It doesn't bode well for sleeping tonight; especially after last night, Erik unused to a full night's slumber, his body renewed in ways that will make succumbing to sleep a challenge.

Unbidden, Raven's books come to mind, but he shakes the thought aside, climbing up onto steeper ground now, where the trail rises above the water. It bends sharply up ahead, curving around one of the larger rocks. Erik decides against the detour; pulling himself across it instead.

Except, when he reaches its peak, a sharp cry startles him, Erik losing his footing, half sliding, half stumbling as he comes dangerously close to spilling over its side; into the dark water.

He catches himself just in time, though he bangs his knee and scraps his palm in the process, his satchel slipping around to the front, its strap cutting into the back of his neck. He utters a string of curses, his cheeks flaring when he registers that he's done so in Yiddish.

As soon as he can breathe, he scrambles back onto the rock, crouching, keeping low while he scans the shore up and down for the source of the sound. He half expects to find the police at his back, or even some local who will stare at him with wide eyes once they process the language Erik was just speaking. Instead a flutter of wings catches his gaze.

The sight of the crane ought to surprise him, but if Erik's honest with himself, he was looking for it.

"I thought I told you to fly south," he still says, watching as the bird hops about, eventually settling on one of the rocks ahead, closer to the water than the trail. The crane gives another cry, more piercing this time, but he makes no move to fly away. Erik shakes his head.

"Someone's been feeding you, haven't they?" he says, comprehension dawning.

He remembers now the stories his grandfather used to tell, about the domestication of wild life and how all it ever took was a kind hand and a ready source of food. Erik can think of no other reason the crane might have stayed behind when all its brethren had undoubtedly flown south. He can also think of no other reason for the crane to show so little fear of him.

Before Erik quite knows what he's doing, he's reaching into his satchel and pulling out one of his smaller mackerels. He tosses it in the bird's direction.

The crane cocks its head--if such a thing is even possible and for the longest time Erik is struck with the oddity of the gesture. It doesn't immediately lunge for the fish, but it does step towards it, graceful and commanding and completely unafraid. Erik has rarely seen such confidence in a person, let alone a bird. He watches the bird lean forward, neck stretching towards the fish, Erik realizing only then that he's holding his breath. He exhales slowly, trying to keep as still and silent as possible, half afraid he'll startle the bird. He doesn't, the crane scooping the fish into its beak, lifting its head and then extending its wings. Erik wants to reach out; to stop this majestic creature from flying away, the impulse as foreign as it is powerful. Hollowness pools in his stomach as the crane takes flight, prize won, Erik no more than another kind sap who thought to feed it. Erik drops his outstretched hand--he has no recollection of having given in to the impulse to raise it--and shakes his head. He watches the crane fly towards the black cliffs and wonders when the welfare of a bird became his concern.

Re-adjusting his satchel, he climbs down from the rock and rejoins the trail; heads for home.


	4. Chapter 4

He wakes in the middle of the night and listens to the rain beating against his roof. Fat drops from the sound of it, the rat-tat-tat of water on metal echoing throughout his tiny cabin. The wind has picked up; it rustles the trees and rattles his windows. He won't get back to sleep now, which is fine, because he's oddly awake, despite the early hour and a night of tossing and turning.

He could get out of bed; tiptoe to the woodstove and get it started, let its warmth and light chase away the desolate weather. His blankets are warm, though; a cocoon of security amidst a tempest, so he lies there and listens to the storm, watches the play of shadows across his ceiling. The seas will be rough, if they go out at all and that will depend entirely on how desperate Azazel is: first the fish conspire against them, now the weather. If Erik was the type to believe in such things, he might think it an omen.

Something creaks and then crashes outside, Erik wincing, though he makes no move to leave the bed. He recognizes the sound of his work shed door coming loose, something he's been meaning to fix for some time, but decided to relegate to his list of winter chores. It bangs in the wind, a steady crashing that soon fades into rhythmic background noise. Erik exhales and then stretches, letting his heels slide along the mattress until his feet slip off the end of the bed. He curls his toes.

He has no idea what time it is, save that dawn is still a long way off, the dark of night far reaching. He can barely see the foot of the bed, let alone across the room, even after his eyes have adjusted. There's a Zippo on his kitchen table, the small square of metal easy to pinpoint. He calls it over, the lighter warm when it reaches his palm. He holds it in his hand, acutely aware of the nicks and scrapes that mar its surface.

He's achy from a night of poor sleep, so it takes some effort to sit up. He shifts until his back is pressed against the wall, blankets drawn tight around him, his knees drawn to his chest. He flips open the Zippo and strikes it alight, tiny flame dancing, casting the area around his bed into warm orange light. The hand holding the lighter is shaking, the flames illuminating the tiny black numbers on the inside of his arm. Erik tears his gaze away; turns his attention to the nightstand.

There's a gold pocket watch sitting next to the book he was reading last night--not the one from before, Erik having banished that to the depths of his bookshelf. This one is a harmless murder mystery, so poorly written he's already solved it. The watch isn't really gold; not for the price he paid for it, the Hungarian pawn shop he bought it from eager to take a handful of Erik's coin for it. He only bought it because it reminded him of the watch his father owned--that one was real gold. The Nazis took it from him before they put a bullet in his head. He wonders often if it's still out there somewhere, or if the Nazis melted it down for its precious metal.

His father used to say it kept perfect time. Erik very much doubts he can say the same for his.

He flips it open now, tiny hand ticking away, the hour later than he thought, dawn an hour off; late enough that if he wanted to he could climb out of bed and start his day. He thinks very seriously about doing exactly that.

Instead he lights the hurricane lantern that's sitting on the book's other side, a halo of light falling across the bed, colouring the blue-grey of his covers a vibrant shade of violet. He reaches for the book next, pausing only to prop his pillow behind his back before he turns the yellowed and dog-eared pages to where he left off last night. The protagonist is about to find out the main suspect has an alibi.

He loses half an hour to reading, which is almost enough to take him through four chapters. When he first left the camps, his English spotty and confused, it would take him hours to finish a single chapter, each word carefully sounded out, Erik fumbling over verb tenses and pronouns. Now the language flows smoothly across the page, Erik unpracticed, but mostly fluent. If only he could say the same for his Norwegian, but for the longest time after the war, when it seemed the Americans and Russians were bent on dividing the world in two--something he still expects to happen, if they don't destroy each other first--learning one of the languages seemed a necessary skill for survival. Erik's gotten very good at surviving. He only chose English because a bookshop in Amsterdam carried English titles and not Russian ones.

The story doesn't hold him for long. He sets it aside when the words start to blur together, voice hoarse from speaking some of the passages out loud. He tips his head back against the wall, stares into the room and wonders, not for the first time, if he's overstayed his welcome. The feeling of displacement, of being alone in a sea of strangers, hangs heavy around him today. He is as isolated and alone as the crane he fed last night.

The thought makes him chuckle, though he can find no actual humour in the situation. It's enough to get him moving, though, Erik slipping from the bed, floorboards cold beneath his feet. He crosses to the stove and gets a fire going.

Outside the storm seems to be getting worse: the wind howls and the rain pelts the roof. He gets thoroughly soaked when he goes out to start the generator and the pump, but it's worth it to have water for coffee and to fill the tiny bathroom sink for a shave. Dawn is starting to creep above the horizon now, though sunrise is still a ways off. The world is painted in twilight, Erik taking comfort in the still silence between night and day. He takes his time shaving, washes his face and changes his clothes.

The sweater he's chosen is worn around the cuffs, giant holes where his thumbs poke through. He rather likes it; it keeps his sleeves from riding up, ensuring his tattoo remains out of sight. There are few who have seen it--fewer still who know what it means--but Erik doesn't like the reminder. He thinks often of carving it from his skin, but he doesn't want to erase the evidence.

It's only when he's sitting at the kitchen table, steaming cup at his elbow, the last of his bread his breakfast, that it occurs to him that all of this was likely for naught. Mother Nature is still battering his cabin. No sane person would take a boat out in this weather. He'll walk into town and end up turning around; coming back to hunker down and wait it out.

That doesn't stop him from draining his coffee, clearing away his breakfast and then heading to the door. In the two years he's worked for Azazel, he's only missed a single day, and then only because he spiked a temperature and was unable to crawl out of bed. Raven stopped by--her first and only visit--carrying a thermos full of soup. He chased her off with a harsh word and then suffered the rest of the fever blissfully alone.

He stands now inside the threshold of his door, staring at the steady downpour. The rain's coming down in sheets. It's washed away what was left of yesterday's snow, the ground grey and muddy. Narrowing his eyes at the skyline, Erik turns and heads back inside.

He moves to the steamer trunk beneath his window, bending down to unfasten its latches and pull it open. The heady scent of must catches his nose, Erik recoiling. It reminds him too much of the damp press of some of the darker places he's been forced to sleep over the years. He breathes slowly in and out through his nose.

Beneath his blankets he finds a rain poncho; waxed canvas the same colour as the armbands the kapos used to wear back in the camps. He hesitates before pulling it free; slipping it over his head and then standing. It hangs on him like a sheet, falling well past his knees, its hood obscuring his eyes. Erik cinches the tie around his neck, and then returns to the open door. He steps outside.

There's a bite to the air that suggests the rain might turn to sleet later. Certainly the wind makes it feel colder than it actually is. It catches Erik's poncho, fluttering it around his legs. Erik braces himself against its force. Beneath the poncho he's wearing his coat and scarf, but they do little to trap his heat. He slips his hands beneath the poncho; tucks them into empty pockets. It's a grey, shapeless mass that leaves his property; heads towards the town.

The ground's still half frozen from yesterday and the rain is falling so hard and so fast that it has nowhere to go. It leaves the ground slick and treacherous. He picks his way carefully, gaze locked on his path, though occasionally he finds himself glancing skyward, eyeing the dark, rolling clouds.

They're moving in from the west, heavy with precipitation. He can't see the fjord from this vantage point, but he can hear the water, which means it's moving pretty fast. If the fjord's rough, he can only imagine what the seas must be like. A gust of wind catches him then, the strength of it somewhat humbling. Erik staggers back a step, poncho billowing behind him like a cape. He gets his feet under him a second later, slipping down the side of a rocky outcrop to reach the road.

[ ](http://nekosmuse.com/crane/poncho.jpg)

The road is a soggy mess of mud and debris. The wind's taken down several branches; they litter his path. He pauses briefly when he reaches the point where the water-side trail deviates, but he very much doubts he'll manage it today. The road is bad enough. Erik quickens his steps, the town coming into view, red and yellow houses dull and ordinary in the dim light of a darkened sky. Several times Erik spares a glance over his shoulder, though what he's looking for, he doesn't know.

The town is practically deserted this morning, most of the houses shut up tight. There's flooding; water spilling over the fjord and into the town, though only in the low-lying areas where people don't tend to build houses. He slows his steps as he passes Raven's store, the front of her property one of those low-lying areas, water pooling in a large puddle. It laps at her porch.

She spots him as he's navigating it; calls his name, barely heard over the wind. It was as though she was waiting for him, though he can tell by the surprise in her voice that that isn't true. He suspects she was only watching through the front window; waiting on customers unlikely to come given the weather.

Erik debates pressing on; pretending he hasn't heard. She calls his name again. There's little Erik can do save pick his way to her side, ducking in through the open door, glad at least to get out of the rain. Raven offers him a smile.

"Don't tell me you guys are going to go out in this," she says, something raw in her voice that Erik only recognizes because he's heard it in his own. She's thinking of her husband, lost to the sea's fury. Erik shakes his head.

"I doubt it, but Azazel will want us to check in," he says, feeling awkward, standing as he is in the middle of her store, surrounded by so much metal it almost hurts not to reach for it. Raven offers a brief nod.

"Well, if he doesn't need you, you should come back. I can make tea."

He has no idea what she's offering--a friendly gesture or something more--Erik unused to navigating such things. Couples were ripped apart in the camps, love a weakness they used against you. He thinks back to her book, tries to picture her beneath him, but the image only makes him cringe, Erik taking an involuntary step back.

"I have things I need to take care of at home," he says, realizing too late he's referred to his cabin as home. Raven doesn't mention it, calmly accepting his rejection, as though her offer was no more than a friendly overture and Erik has somehow misstepped; that he is owed his embarrassment.

He should make an excuse and leave--he wants to make an excuse and leave--the store too warm after having been outside, Erik still dressed in his layers. He's dripping a puddle all over her floor, the dry air making him acutely aware of just how wet he is.

Instead he shifts from one foot to the other and asks, "Have you seen a crane?"

He has no idea where the question comes from; his tongue acting without direct input from his brain. He wants immediately to take it back, but Raven is already cocking her head, eyes narrowing as she considers the strangeness of the question.

"I guess I've seen a few. Where I grew up we got a lot of Sandhill cranes."

He can tell she has more to say on the subject, but he's already shaking his head.

"I meant here, in town," he clarifies, but it's not at all what he wanted to say, Erik regretting the words as soon as they're out. He lifts a hand, attempting to wave aside the question, but Raven's already caught up with the conversation.

"You mean the one that seems to think it's a gull?"

Erik's eyes grow wide, even as he takes a step forward, nodding. "Yes."

"I haven't seen it yet, but everyone in town's talking about it. It showed up a few weeks ago. The locals think it's a sign. That cranes are portents of good luck and future prosperity, or something like that." She laughs then a bitter, ugly thing. "But if you ask me, I'd say it's more of an ill omen, given what's happened."

Erik's confusion must be painfully obvious, because her eyes grow wide, mouth falling open. "You don't know?"

Erik shakes his head. "Know what?"

"I thought you guys found the dinghy. That's what everyone's saying. The police were on your boat, weren't they?"

He's still thinking about the crane, so he's having a hard time processing what she's saying. He takes another step forward. "What are you talking about?"

Raven shakes her head, blonde locks slipping out from behind her ears to frame her face. She looks impossibly young in the false light of her store.

"Sorry, I thought it was you, but someone found an abandoned dinghy on the water yesterday." Erik nods; doesn't bother telling him that that was, in fact, him. "The guy who owned it was found murdered. They think his killer stole the boat."

Shock hits him so hard he takes a step back, staggered. He has no idea what to say to that. He shakes his head, though whether he's denying the news or the crane's omen, he doesn't know. He thinks briefly of his isolated cabin; of the miles and miles of wilderness stretching out around him. Erik has never felt safe, even at the best of times. The thought of someone out there ignites a seed of rage.

"Do they know who he is?" Erik hears himself ask, thinking of all the men he's known who could be called murderers. He pictures the dinghy as he saw it yesterday, only in his mind's eye there is a man sitting primly at its helm, Gestapo uniform newly brushed. Erik shakes his head to displace the memory; thinks instead of his rifle and all the bits of metal in his house--thinks of all the ways he might kill a man in self defense. He's not a defenseless little boy anymore: he has the means to protect himself.

Belatedly, it occurs to him that Raven's all alone in the flat above her tiny store.

"Do you have anything to defend yourself with?" he asks. Raven smirks.

"Why Erik, I didn't know you cared," she says, but he can tell she's only teasing, her smile playful. She reaches beneath her counter then; pulls out a shotgun. She pats it affectionately. "I'll be fine."

She reminds him so much of Erik's sister in that moment that it takes his breath away.

She has the same innocence, made brittle by experience, but it's there, lingering, defiant in the face of reality.

He doesn't tell her that--doesn't ask for answers to questions he's not sure he wants to ask. Instead he nods, glances back towards the door and then gestures over his shoulder.

"I should go," he says, waiting only for her nod before turning back the way he's come; heading back out into the rain.

He still has to navigate around the puddle slowly creeping towards her front door, and the closer he gets to the docks the wetter it gets. The wind picks up the second he's past the protective enclave of the houses. It's coming across the water, cold and damp and unobstructed. He can see the fjord clearly now, the water churning, white-tipped waves crashing against the shore. The water is at least a couple of feet higher than it usually is. The pebble beach is all but obliterated.

He scans the shoreline, realizing too late that he's looking for the crane. He has no idea where the impulse comes from, save perhaps a lingering sense of kinship. He doesn't spot it, but can't imagine it would have stuck around, food or no food. Surely it has somewhere secure to hunker down and wait out the storm. Across the harbour, the cliffs seem an impenetrable fortress. He's seen gulls flying in and out of their face, natural pockets and caves making ideal nesting sites. He wonders if there are any large enough to hold a crane.

Erik turns his gaze back towards the docks.

The waves aren't cresting the tops of the docks, but every so often a fine spray of mist reaches their surface. The boats bob up and down on the waves, occasionally knocking against their moorings. Erik winces every time one hits. The sound of it almost overpowers the roar of the wind.

There are a group of men, Azazel among them, standing inside the protective shelter of one of the workhouses. They're watching the boats warily, frowns tugging at more than one set of lips. Erik makes his way towards them, his steps slow and steady to avoid slipping.

Azazel spots him and waves him over, Erik glad to duck into the workhouse, the rain no closer to letting up than it was when he left his house. The stench of yesterday's catch still lingers in the air and rows of bins are still packed with newly gutted fish. Workers move between them, dumping new ice onto their surface; the old ice draining through holes in the bins' undersides.

"I no take my girl out in dis," Azazel says when Erik reaches his side. Erik nods.

"Does anything else need doing?" he asks, because he's here, and the last thing he wants to do is go back out into the rain.

Azazel shakes his head.

Erik's disappointed, but he tries not to show it. Instead he takes up residence near the workhouse door, giving himself a few minutes to dry out before heading back out. He's far enough away from the others that he can only vaguely hear their conversation. They're talking about the dinghy and the murdered man. Erik glances down to the far end of the dock, past Azazel's trawler, and finds the police boat still moored, looking like little more than a kid's toy in the face of nature's fury.

Erik glances in the other direction.

Where once the dock ended in rocky beach, there is now only water, the trail he used yesterday half submerged. Waves crash against the rocks there, too. Erik's been out to sea in bad weather--numerous times--but he does not envy anyone caught out there today. He lets his gaze turn towards home.

He glances over his shoulder, exchanges a nod with Azazel, and then heads back into the rain.

He's tempted to pick his way along the trail anyway, just to look for the crane, the thought of it having nowhere to go seizing in Erik's chest. He has no idea why it bothers him so much. _The thing deserves to drown if it's stupid enough to be out in this_ , he tells himself, though it doesn't make him feel any better. He takes the road home.

Raven doesn't stop him passing this time, though Erik's certain if he glanced towards her store he'd find her watching out the window. He keeps his eyes straight ahead, waiting until he's out of town to properly scan his surroundings. He calls to mind the dinghy, Erik tense, wishing then for his rifle or something metal; anything but the wide expanse of rock and tree.

The rain has turned the road to muck, Erik slipping as he navigates up the path towards his cabin. The path is worse than the road, Erik's boots thick with mud by the time he reaches its summit. He staggers to a stop then, something in the mud catching his gaze. Erik slows his steps, stepping off the trail to crouch next to a single feather, silken white tipped with black.

He knows what it is even before he lifts it, the feather soaked through with mud and rain. He runs a careful finger along its length, the texture like thread, the kind his mother used to use for her needlework. Erik glances up; does a quick survey of the surrounding area, but finds nothing. He hesitates briefly before tucking the feather into his coat pocket, shaking out his poncho as he stands.

He continues up the trail.


	5. Chapter 5

The light in the kitchen pulses in time to the hum of the generator, while the newly lit stove chases away the cold damp of outside. The storm has abated, though the pitter-patter of rain still echoes off his roof and icy drafts creep in through the cracks and crevices of his cabin walls. Erik stands next to his kitchen table, long since dry, his poncho hanging on a hook by the door, his boots, scrapped of mud and wiped clean, sitting on his mat. He cocks his head; tries to reason why he thought bringing home a discarded feather was a good idea.

It's clean now, washed free of mud, though it's dried in clumps, in need of grooming or whatever it is birds do with their beaks. He's ignored it until now; throughout the afternoon's chores and then his supper. A graceful, delicate thing, it is too long to belong to a common gull. Erik can think of only one bird to whom it might belong, and that is the crane. He reaches a shaking hand towards it and lifts it gingerly between his thumb and forefinger to get a closer look.

In the ghetto, Erik can remember feeding tiny pieces of bread to rats like they were pets instead of vermin. He continued to do so until his mother caught him; took him aside and told him she was proud of him, even as she calmly explained how little bread there was--too little to give away to the rats, who might migrate elsewhere looking for food, unlike them, who were stuck inside the ghetto's walls.

He was glad for her words, because he learned then to cherish every spare crumb he could find, something that undoubtedly saved his life inside the camps. He keeps his cupboards stocked to bursting now; has extra hidden away in metal tins, firmly secured against unwanted pests and hidden beneath his floorboards.

He has no idea what to do with the feather, so he carries it to his steamer trunk, where, buried beneath his blankets and next to where his poncho was stored, he keeps a battered metal tin. On its front, U.S. Army, Medical Department is displayed in black lettering. Above it reads: FIRST AID. And below: FOR GAS CASUALTIES ONLY. Erik found the thing while tilling a field outside a small village in France, the war's destruction still visible in the deep gouges and scars that cut across the land. The tin was empty, but something compelled him to keep it, and now it serves as a holding place for the few mementos he thinks worthy of keeping.

He opens the tin now; places the feather next to an almost two-decades' old stick of chewing gum--a gift from an American soldier just after the war, when Erik was wandering, not yet wearing his years, but feeling them. It was the first act of kindness Erik had experienced in far longer than he could remember. The feather is an odd complement to the bits and ends he's found reasons to keep. Erik very carefully avoids looking at the once yellow, now discoloured star that rests alongside the gum. He closes the tin, places it back beneath his blankets and seals the trunk.

He stands and moves to the woodstove.

There's a pot of water that's only just starting to boil, steam rising off its surface in tiny tendrils that look blue in the cabin's pale light. It's the second pot he's boiled, the first used to wash the night's dishes. This one is meant for his bath. He wraps a cloth around the pot's handle and carries it into the bathroom where a metal wash basin sits on a mat on the floor, already half filled with cold water drawn from the well. Erik dumps the boiling water into the basin.

There's not enough room in the bathroom to close the door with the basin on the floor. Erik steps around it and opens the cabinet beneath the sink just far enough to retrieve a washcloth and a bar of yellow soap. He sets both down on the lip of the sink and then sets to work stripping off his clothes.

There's a clipped efficiency to his movements, Erik shedding sweater and then undershirt; trousers and then underpants. He's used to doing this quickly: wasted movements in the camps meant punishment. He slips his socks off last, the floorboards cold beneath his feet. Despite the warmth of the fire, his skin rises to gooseflesh. Erik steps into the basin.

The water isn't as warm as he would like it, but it's better than nothing, and he is in dire need of a proper bath. There isn't enough room to sit, but he squats, the water high enough to ghost his backside; his feet and ankles completely submerged. A dented metal cup floats past his left leg. Erik grabs it, fills it with water and dumps it over his head.

It takes several scoops before his hair is wet enough for the yellow soap to lather. Erik ducks his head so that his chin touches his breast bone. He scrubs at his hair until it is thick with suds. He scrapes fingernails across his scalp, feels the week's build-up of wax and oil giving way to his ministrations.

He fills the cup when he is done, rinsing his hair one scoop at a time. By the time he is done, there is a thin layer of suds floating on top of the water and the scent of soap overpowers the stink of the water's sulphur. Erik reaches for his washcloth.

There is something incredibly pleasant about washing away a week's worth of grime. He keeps himself clean with sponge baths in between, but it is not the same as having water sluice over his shoulders and trail down his back. Erik runs the cloth over his torso and beneath his arms, careful and steady to get into every crevice. He does his arms and his legs; his feet and his hands. He takes care to clean behind his ears and in his navel. All the places he used to get sores from lack of washing back in the camps. When he is done, the water is murky with dirt and soap.

Touching himself is not something he does often, need swelling in his groin as he soaps his cock. This was never a problem in the camps; Erik too weak and humiliated to experience arousal. It's something that came with renewed health, however much his body feels foreign to him--too much sinewy muscle in place of skin and bones, his scars faded to crisscrossing white lines. Erik washes around his scrotum, tucks the cloth back to wash along his perineum. He reaches further back, runs the cloth over his anus, setting off sparks of pleasure that he immediately stamps down.

It does not stop his cheeks from heating, or his jaw from clenching, Erik acutely aware of the open bathroom door; of the light above the sink, illuminating him in soft light. He feels entirely too exposed, even though he's spent the day hanging his shutters, his windows locked up tight, his door already bolted, rifle propped beside it. Erik finishes washing and tosses the cloth aside.

He reaches again for the dented cup.

The water has turned a dismal grey. It's gone lukewarm. He rinses himself quickly and then reaches for his towel. As he stands, water drips off his still-wet hair; fat drops that land on his shoulders and run down his back. He wraps the towel around his waist and moves into the main room.

A dry blast of warm air from the woodstove hits him as he moves to stand before it. Erik pauses to add more wood to the fire, basking in its warmth. It's cozy inside his cabin with the shutters on. They keep out the dark of descending night and block out most of the cold.

Erik hangs the towel on the back of a chair and moves to his chest of drawers to pull out a clean, long-sleeved undershirt. The collar is badly stretched from years of wear and the elbows are thinning, but it's warm and comfortable and hides his tattoo. Erik is loath to replace it. He pulls it over his head and then reaches for a pair of long underwear. He slides them on and then moves back to the bathroom.

It doesn't take long to clean up his mess; Erik left standing on the threshold between his newly darkened bathroom and the main living space. He glances briefly to the door, and then to the open ceiling. The rhythmic tinkling of rain still echoes off the roof. Erik can count the number of times he's left the generator running overnight on one hand. He hates doing it, but he is warm, dressed for bed and freshly clean. The thought of traipsing out in the wet and muck is unappealing.

 _Waste not, want not_ , his mother would say. In the ghetto conservation spelled the difference between life and death. Nothing really mattered in the camps; they didn't have anything to waste.

He berates himself then for even considering it; slips into his boots and coat, draws his poncho over his head and heads outside, rifle propped over his shoulder. He's damp again when he gets back in, though it's not as bad as he thought it would be, Erik shaking out his poncho, hanging it by the door, and then pulling off his boots.

He doesn't bother with the hurricane lamp, or his collection of books. He simply climbs into bed, nestles beneath the covers and wills himself to sleep. It is a long time coming.

Hours later he wakes to a raw burning in the back of his throat that suggests he's spent the night screaming again. It happens often, so Erik merely clears his throat, making note of the wisp of breath that fogs the air. The temperature has dropped overnight.

He can feel it now in his toes; a stiff numbness that comes from a day of damp followed by a night of frost. Even his blankets are without warmth. Erik climbs from the bed and moves to the woodstove, the cold an excuse to get the day started.

He doesn't linger long through his ablutions, or over breakfast. With the shutters drawn tight, it's hard to tell what time it is, though there is a difference in the light that suggests the sun is on its way to rising. Erik dresses in layers, expecting the cold, though he does not expect the snow until he opens his front door; stares out across his front lawn at a field of white.

Yesterday's storm has knocked loose the remaining foliage, the trees bare and skeletal. Combined with a thick covering of snow, it is as if he's been transported in time; brought from the cusp of autumn into the depths of winter overnight. Erik blinks against its brightness; closes his door and heads back inside.

He retrieves his sturdier boots, the ones made from seal skin that keep his feet both warm and dry. He pulls out a better pair of gloves, too, fingers cut away, Erik hating to have his hands restricted--and besides, his fingers were so often frost-bitten in his youth that they no longer feel the cold. When he is properly dressed, he steps outside and starts towards the road.

The wind is still blustery, and a scattering of clouds still fill the air, though they are no longer heavy with precipitation and the sun is clearly visible against the horizon. The newly fallen snow crunches beneath his boots, Erik cringing against the sound. It reminds him painfully of stepping across ash and bits of bone, his work as sonderkommando a lingering nightmare he will never escape from.

Somewhere ahead, a gull cries, Erik reminded of his task. He slips down the side of a rock, coming onto the road, stopping dead in his tracks. There, in the middle of the road, a single footprint mars the pristine snow.

In an instant he is alert, Erik scanning the area, both with eyes and his affinity for metal. He finds nothing; not even a second track. He circles the area then, searching for additional prints, but though he finds plenty of animal tracks, there is nothing to match the solitary footprint.

A man's boot, if he had to guess, similar in size to Erik's, though he does not recognize the tread. There are bits of exposed rock where the snow has not settled, but they are few and far between and Erik cannot imagine traversing this area without leaving a trace. His own tracks lead clearly back to his cabin. The footprint he's found seems to be leading away; towards the town. Erik spends the better part of ten minutes searching the area; trying to find its match.

The sun is peaking above the horizon when he gives up the task for impossible, Erik shaking off lingering unease and continuing on his way. He doesn't find another print, even after the town comes into view.

He pauses briefly when he reaches the trail that runs along the water, turning to stare down its winding path. He doubts the flooding has abated, but he still spends several long minutes debating whether to attempt it. A gust of wind reminds him of the cold, Erik pulling his scarf tighter and continuing down the road.

To his surprise Raven doesn't come out to greet him, something that worries him briefly until he glances into her store-front window; finds her reorganizing shelves, her back to the road. He hurries on past, gets to the docks just as Azazel's arriving, the water choppy, the wind having picked up, but he can tell by the spring in Azazel's step that he intends to go out today.

It will be a cold, treacherous day on the water.

The gulls seem to have already gotten the message. They fill the sky and clutter the docks, Erik glancing between then, but he finds no sign of the crane. He glances past the pebble beach, but it is still submerged. There is a fluttering of white across the fjord, the black cliffs alive with life, but Erik is too far off to distinguish between bird species. He shakes the thought off, still not entirely certain why he cares.

He follows Azazel onto the boat.

He can tell Azazel's impatient to get out onto the water, but Erik still takes his time, inspecting the ship and setting her right after yesterday's storm. She was banged around quite a bit, her decks flooded and then frozen, her contents knocked around. The greenhorn arrives a few minutes into their inspection; gets to work hauling ropes and checking nets. Erik checks lines and winches, orange slicker-suit already stiff with ice. 

By the time they are set to leave, the docks are a hive of activity, Azazel obviously not the only one intending to make up for lost time. Erik scans the eager faces of men he recognizes, but doesn't really know. He had not thought to linger this long; certainly he had not thought to make friends. 

On the far end of the dock, the police boat is gone. Erik tears his gaze away and comes to stand at the boat's bow.

A flock of gulls follows them out of the harbour, though the sky remains void of anything larger. Already the boat is keeling, the winches and wires making a rat-tat-tat sound in the wind. Erik lets his muscles grow tense, even knowing he'll regret it later, reaching out then to secure the boat, stability returning as she cuts through the rough waters, heading down the fjord and out to sea, where even rougher waters await.

A few of the smaller crafts have turned around and are retreating the way they've come, obviously giving up the day as lost. Azazel presses on. Erik knows their boat can handle this--has sailed her through worse--but he will end the day drenched and exhausted. Past the protective shelter of land there are swells that would break apart a smaller boat. Azazel's trawler rises to their peaks only to crash down the other side, water spraying her decks. Erik clings to a safety line to keep from being swept overboard. The trawler lists painfully to the starboard side, lines and wires shaking in the wind. Azazel's wearing a wide smile, but then, he's always enjoyed the thrill of bad weather.

Erik sets his jaw, waits until they've found a trough, and then signals to the greenhorn--who resembles his nickname today, complexion ashen--to start letting out the nets.

There is no pause in the work today, the ocean an untamed beast that requires constant vigilance. They attach themselves to safety harnesses after a particularly violent swell, the lines limiting their range of motion, but at least they will remain on deck. Fishing in this type of weather is not easy, the weight of the nets dragging to boat back, making her less buoyant as she crests waves. Their catch won't prove fruitful, either: when the surface waves get like this, the fish move deeper and Azazel's boat isn't designed for bottom trawling. Their first catch is barely worth hauling up.

Azazel keeps them at it, though, no doubt aware that this might be the last time they head out onto the water. Erik has no idea what he used to do before Erik came along--the only reason they're able to do this is because Erik's keeping the boat steady, something that exhausts him completely. He's not used to using his powers for something this big; certainly not for so extended a period of time. He's spent the whole of his adult life--since he woke one morning to find every metal object within a thirty-foot radius pinned to the ceiling--trying to avoid using his powers. It is taxing to extend them so far beyond his reach.

By lunch the nets are back out and they're drifting, the three of them locked inside the main cabin, dry and marginally warm as they drink soup out of thermoses and pass around stale chunks of bread. Erik eyes the instrument panel, discovers that the wind has picked up considerably since they set out. Their entourage of gulls has long since disappeared, the coastline a barely visible dot on the horizon. The seas are getting rougher.

Water now sprays across the entire boat when they crest a wave's peak and fall into its trough. It crashes around the cabin, windshield wipers moving uselessly against it. Every so often a gust of wind will jerk them sideways, Erik struggling them to keep them from capsizing. He doesn't often question Azazel's orders, but even he can see they shouldn't stay out in this.

"We should head inland," he says around a mouthful of bread, meaning he doesn't have the strength to keep them afloat much longer. Azazel narrows his gaze, glances out the back set of windows to the holds. They aren't even half full.

The greenhorn watches them with wide, fearful eyes.

"The season's over," Erik presses. "The gales are going to last for months, but if we stay out in them, we won't. The fish are gone; they won't be back until February. This is just arrogance."

He can sense Azazel's need to argue--it is his ship, his livelihood--but he respects Erik's opinion, so after a moment's hesitation, he nods, the greenhorn sagging with relief.

Erik sets down his now empty thermos and heads back out onto the decks.

They get the nets up with little trouble, the catch still sparse, though better than the last two. It seems to please Azazel enough that he points them immediately towards the shore, tacking them against the waves so that they cut across the water a good deal faster. The going is still slow.

The wind is against them, and the water's grown more turbulent. The boat shudders and groans, creaking and straining her protest as she's thrown over one wave and down another. Erik stands at the bow, safety harness firmly attached, clinging to a guideline to keep his feet. The greenhorn has retreated to the cabin.

It's a wild ride, and twice they keel so badly it's all Erik can do to prevent them capsizing. They're the only boat Erik can visibly see, the sky growing darker, a secondary system blowing in, bringing with it wind and freezing rain. A thin layer of ice has formed around his mouth, his eyelashes and eyebrows covered in white. The ship nose-dives down the side of a wave, landing with a jolt on the other side, bow dipping into the water even as the next wave crashes against the ship.

Erik loses his feet.

His safety line keeps him on the boat, but it's a frantic minute while he's struggling against the ocean, during which his hold on the ship momentarily falters. She's flung to the side, rolling wildly, Erik falling towards the starboard railing, striking it with enough force to get the wind knocked out of him. He lets out a groan as soon as he can breathe, though it goes unheard over the roar of the water. It's hard to think against the pain, Erik dizzy with it as he struggles to get his feet under him; to get the ship back under his control. He only manages it because they're talking life or death now and Erik's been through too much in his life to die like this.

As soon as he gets the ship righted, a pair of arms wrap around his waist.

It takes Erik a minute to recognize Azazel, his initial instinct to struggle falling away as he allows Azazel to drag him back into the cabin. It's easier to concentrate on keeping the boat steady when he's no longer being knocked about by waves and wind. Erik waits until he's certain his hold is secure to wrap a hand around his battered ribs, bending over and breathing steadily against the hurt.

The sailing gets rougher the closer to shore they gets, waves becoming breakers that lift the ship and toss her forward. Twice more Erik comes close to losing his grip--twice more he manages to salvage it, though by the time they reach the mouth of the fjord, he has reached the limit of his endurance. The waters are calmer here--though not by much--enough that he can relinquish his hold and allow Azazel to navigate them by skill alone. Erik slumps against the back wall.

It is still early when they make it back into the harbour. As they dock, more people than usual rush to help, reports of sea conditions leaving the village worried about their fleet. Azazel's ship is the last to come in. It means they get her cleared and cleaned in less time than usual, but there is a whole new list of things that need doing if they mean to retire her for the season. Erik is too exhausted to care about most of it, but it's part of the job and he hasn't yet shirked any of his duties. He sets immediately to work.

They'll haul her out of the water at some point--see about fixing any damage to her hull--but for now they unload a season's worth of supplies, pump the bilges and start making lists of things in need of repair. It is not an easy task for Erik, a wide bruise already blooming across his side, his ribs aching with hurt.

Azazel eventually sends Erik with a length of rope to the far end of the docks, where piles of rope in need of repair are stacked in waist-high rows. The rope is heavy, but it gets him on firm land, his sea legs waning along with his energy. He moves slowly to the end of the dock, wincing with each footfall, and adds his rope to the pile. He turns then to return to the ship, but his steps falter at the sound of a familiar cry. He spins back around, wincing again when the movement pulls his ribs, but the pain is soon forgotten, smile coming unbidden to his face when the crane hops up onto the dock.

It eyes Erik curiously; undoubtedly expecting another morsel of fish.

"I thought the storm chased you off," Erik says, feeling something unfurl in his chest that he thinks might be relief. The crane hops towards him. Its feathers are soaked through, though it doesn't seem bothered by the cold. Erik holds up his hands. "I don't have anything." He feels marginally guilty for it, especially when the crane gives another cry.

Erik shakes his head.

"Stay here then." He's already berating himself for being soft-hearted; something he thought beaten out of him long before now. He returns to the boat, moving quickly despite his lingering hurt. He ignores Azazel's beckoning, holding up a raised hand as he moves to retrieve a fish from one of the plastic bins, newly loaded. He turns and heads back the way he has come.

The crane is right where Erik left it, as though it actually understood Erik's instructions. Erik shakes his head at the thought; tosses the fish and watches the crane dart toward it. It collects its prize, spreads its wings and takes off inland.

"You're welcome," Erik calls after it. He watches it leave, until it is a tiny dot on the horizon, the wind picking up, the spattering of freezing rain turning to snow. Erik releases a breath, rubs absently at his ribs, and then heads back to see what Azazel wanted.


	6. Chapter 6

It doesn't take long to clear and secure Azazel's boat, though Erik feels the work in the ache of his shoulders and the throbbing of his ribs. When he's done, he stands on the dock and glances over the boat, eyes coming to rest on Azazel where he stands, like a king staring out over his domain.

Erik catches his eye, but doesn't offer a hand; unused to such contact and, besides, Azazel is not expecting it. They merely nod in unison, brief acknowledgement of a job well done and of the season yet to come. Before Erik came, Azazel cycled through greenhorns, none of the town's experienced men wanting to work long on his boat. He is a good man to have at sea, but like Erik, a foreigner, not entirely trusted.

There is very little ceremony as Erik slings his satchel over his shoulder, the last of the season's catch and a packing of snow weighing it down. His ribs still ache fiercely, but it's a distant pain, one that speaks of bruising instead of fracture. Erik ignores it; walks the line of the docks, nodding those he passes as they in turn nod to him.

The sun still graces the sky; a faint ball of yellow light, half obscured by a thin veil of cloud. This morning's wind has died considerably, the threat of precipitation vanishing completely. The heavy weight of impending weather no longer hangs over the land, the air as light as Erik's steps. The lingering hurt of his ribs means he has to walk slightly hunched over, but there is a weight missing from around his shoulders, as though the end of the season and the change in weather has carried away some of his tension.

He passes Raven's store, Raven meeting his gaze through the window, though she is with a customer and does not attempt to attract his attention. Still, a frown spreads across her face when she realizes he intends to pass without comment. Erik tips his head in apology, though he will see her again before the new season starts. She has the only place in town that sells bread, baked by a local woman that lives not far from the docks. Erik is fond of it.

Beyond the town, he keeps his eyes locked on the road ahead, though he finds no additional footprints. The snow has obliterated the tracks from this morning. Once, Erik glances up and catches a glimpse of something dark and fleeting in the sky, but it is too far away to tell if it is the crane or some other bird. He leaves the road and picks his way over a cluster of rocks, climbing the path that leads home.

His cabin sits seemingly untouched from this morning, though the new fallen snow has blanketed the lawn, obscuring Erik's earlier tracks. Dozens of animal prints take their place, crisscrossing his yard until it is impossible to tell one from another. Erik pauses on the edge of his property; takes a moment to scan the area with both sight and his affinity for metal.

He continues forward only when he is certain he is alone, though still approaching the house with caution, the police boat and dinghy still present in his mind. He circles the exterior first, pausing to start the generator and then to switch on the pump before moving to his work shed. It is still sealed tight from yesterday, and when he opens it he finds its contents unchanged, clutter spread across the benches, the only thing missing the shutters he hung in yesterday's fading light.

The house, when he eventually enters it, is similarly untouched. Erik stomps the snow off his boots and then takes his satchel into the kitchen and places it in the sink. It is dark despite the remainder of daylight, Erik's shutters blocking out the fading sun. He flicks on the light above the kitchen sink, electricity humming as soft yellow warmth falls across his counter. He moves to the woodstove.

His exhaustion doesn't fully hit him until the warm light of his lamps press against the growing dimness of approaching evening and a newly lit fire is crackling in his stove. He stands at the kitchen sink and scrubs his hands clean of the docks. The pump knocks noisily when he turns off the tap, Erik returning his satchel to the sink. It's too early for supper, and with a fresh packing of snow the fish will keep. He still has his traps to see to, and his ribs to inspect.

He glances between the slats of the shutter on his front window and finds enough light to forgive a short delay. Erik moves to the side of his bed. Beneath it he keeps a battered yellow first-aid kit, an exact duplicate of the one Azazel has beneath his captain's chair. Erik kneels beside the bed and fishes it out. He carries it into the bathroom where he flicks on the light, harsh brightness filling the tiny space. Erik blinks; stares into the mirror as he grapples with his identity.

It takes several minutes before the stranger staring back at him shifts into someone he recognizes, though his reflection has never matched the image he carries in his head. There are bags under his eyes that seem permanently carved into his skin--skin that is the colour of parchment, pale and damp with sweat--and his hair is overdue for a cut. Erik tears his gaze away. He reaches for the hem of his sweater and pulls it over his head.

It hurts more than he'd like to admit, Erik gritting his teeth until it's done. When he glances back into the mirror, his complexion has turned ashen. He clenches his jaw again; reaches for his undershirt next. A wave of nausea accompanies the pain this time. He swallows against the threat of bile, even as he breathes steadily through his nose. He tosses the shirt aside, leans against the counter and reaches for his first aid kit.

There is a glass pill bottle sitting between a package of bandages and a jar of Vaseline. Erik takes out the bottle, unscrews the cap and shakes two pills into his palm. They're round, powdery disks with bevelled edges and a bisect line, though Erik has no interest in a reduced dose. He swallows them dry, wipes the residual powder off on his pants, and then re-seals the bottle and returns it to its place. He glances back to the mirror.

The first glimpse of his injury surprises him. He was expecting the bruising, but not the extent of it. It covers the entire side of his torso, extending almost to his spine. Erik's lucky he didn't break his back. The skin is mottled purple, stained through with a sickly yellow that makes him think of bloated corpses left to rot in the sun. Unbidden, the scent of that memory reaches his nose, Erik gagging, his eyes falling shut, hand coming to his forehead as if he can forcibly push the memory back into hiding. It does retreat, though slower than Erik would like. Only once he is certain it is gone does he reach a tentative hand towards his ribs and begin prodding the area.

There is swelling, and it hurts, Erik hissing through his teeth, but nothing actually feels broken--and Erik knows broken bones--his initial assessment accurate. It means there is little to be done for them, save rest, and fortunately that is now all Erik has. He shakes the thought aside; reaches for his discarded undershirt and pulls it over his head.

Doing so leaves him breathless; enough that he knows he won't get his sweater back on--at least, not without passing out. He leaves it sitting on the back of the toilet and retreats to the main room, moving to his chest of drawers to retrieve a button-down he can pull on without raising his hands above his head. When he's done, he moves to the door and slips into coat and boots.

He dresses as he does every morning, scarf wrapped tight around his throat, fingerless gloves secure on his hands. He spends several minutes debating whether to bring the rifle, but decides against it, wanting his hands free in case his traps prove fruitful.

It's darker than he was expecting when he steps outside, the approach of twilight painting the sky in vibrant reds and purples. A small sliver of light, the last of the day's sun, sits on the horizon. It is warmer now than it was, a fine mist rising off the snow, settling as a thin fog that washes out the landscape, Erik left with the vague impression of having stepped into a dream. He steps off his porch, snow crunching beneath his feet. Erik winces against the sound, and then starts down the hill.

It is a long, lonely walk, past rolling hills and snow covered rocks, the skeletal frames of winter-dead trees dark black shadows that loom around him. Erik keeps his shoulders rolled forward, his steps short, body tightly coiled as if doing so will keep his ribs as still as possible. They still ache, but the Aspirin is doing its job, pain receding with each passing minute.

He listens intently as he walks, but there is only the crunch of snow and the whisper of the wind through the trees' outstretched branches. His first trap is empty, though Erik is not surprised, the snow littered with animal tracks, though none following the path Erik has set for them. He checks to ensure the trap's still working, then obliterates his tracks and keeps moving.

There is an odd stillness in the air; the cold far-reaching. Erik adjusts his coat, pulling it tight against a sudden chill. The clouds are beginning to dissipate, though they still lie in the west. To the east they fade into mere wisps, the veil of stars visible beyond their grasp. It is like looking into eternity, stars crashing all around, Erik pausing on his next step, turning to stare at the dark patch of sky, feeling then so impossibly small; so impossibly alone.

A foolish thought, he tells himself, shaking his head as he moves to the next trap, this one empty, too. It is growing dark enough now to make traversing difficult, the sun almost entirely down, the dark of night pressing back the fading light. Erik gives up the other traps as a lost cause; turns and starts back to the cabin.

He doesn't make it far, just to the next clearing, somewhere between the first and second trap, when he catches sight of something in the snow. The dark shadow instantly draws his gaze, Erik's steps slowing even as he tenses, senses expanding outward, seeking metal as though expecting to find an army hiding behind the scattering of trees. He doesn't, but whatever lies ahead holds a tiny fragment of metal, the edges bevelled into a razor-sharp point. Erik takes a step forward, coming fully into the clearing.

His breath catches.

[ ](http://nekosmuse.com/crane/CRANE01.jpg)

For the longest second he can't bring himself to believe what he is seeing. There, lying in the snow, white upon white, is the crane, red stain spreading beneath it, arrow caught in its wing. Erik takes a shaking step towards it, legs numb with shock, heart pounding even as he struggles to maintain some semblance of calm. The crane glances up at his approach, emitting a cry of despair that cuts through Erik like a knife. He wants to rush the last few paces, but instinct keeps his steps slow and measured, Erik raising his hands in an appeasing gesture when he reaches the crane's side. The crane gives another cry, but makes no move to escape. Erik sinks to his knees in the snow, ribs forgotten in the face of the crane's distress.

"Who did this to you?" he asks, scanning the area for any trace of metal, but aside from the arrow piercing the bird's bloodied and broken wing, he finds no other trace.

The crane gives another cry. Erik coos at it.

"There, there," he says, "stay still a minute." He reaches into his pocket to retrieve his folding knife, Erik already eyeing the wing, lying fanned across the snow, feathers stained in scarlet. The crane lifts its head, but otherwise doesn't move.

Erik reaches slowly for its wing.

It is delicate work cutting the end off the arrow and then pulling it from the crane's wing. He expects the crane to struggle; to attempt to fly as soon as it's free. It doesn't. Instead it merely calls and cries as the arrow's shaft is pulled through the wound, falling silent once it's free. Erik hesitates then, catching the bird's eye, trying to convey some sense of calm so that the bird doesn't fight; end up exaggerating its injuries.

"Okay," Erik says, reaching out to touch the back of the crane's neck, fingers sinking into silken feathers. The crane remains motionless, entirely too trusting. Erik follows the arch of its injured wing; helps tuck it back into the crane's body. The crane lets out another cry, but remains docile. Erik takes a steadying breath before shifting forward, slowly sliding his hands beneath the crane's body, keeping an eye on the crane's head as he slowly lifts. The crane comes willingly; allows Erik to lift it to his chest and then tuck it into his coat. It is a warm weight against his breast, tiny body quivering with cold and fear. Erik makes shushing noises at it.

He slowly stands.

[ ](http://nekosmuse.com/crane/CRANE02.jpg)

The crane gives no protest, so Erik starts forward; his gait awkward with the crane in his arms. New pain lances through his ribs, though it is a distant thing, easily ignored. The crane is more important. In the distance, his cabin looms, soft light spilling out through the slats in the shutters.

He glances down once; finds the crane watching him passively, as though sensing that Erik is a benevolent force; that he means it no harm. He thinks then of all the other animals he has harmed: the fish he pulls from the sea, the animals he might catch in his traps. It sinks his stomach, Erik blanching at the thought of the crane with its neck caught in one of Erik's traps. He vows then to dismantle them come morning. For now he climbs the steps of his cabin, pausing outside the door to check in with the crane before pushing his way inside.

The crane burrows closer, as though shying away from the warmth and light of Erik's home. Erik doesn't bother with boots and coat; he merely crosses to the bed, leaving a trail of wet, snowy footprints in his wake. He sets the crane on the bed, the crane settling into Erik's comforter, still watching Erik intently, as placid and as trusting as a pet.

"I need to get something for your wing. Stay here," Erik says, though why he feels the need to explain his actions, he doesn't know.

Still, it's reassuring when the crane makes no move to escape, lying quietly in the centre of Erik's bed, wings tucked against its body, the wounded one slightly aloft. Erik leaves the crane where it is and retreats into the bathroom.

He shucks his gloves, leaving them on the back of the toilet, along with his previously discarded sweater, and then takes a minute to wash his hands. When they are clean, he retrieves the first aid kit and returns to the main room. The crane is exactly where he left it. Erik takes a minute to marvel at that; to wonder if this might be some kind of bird-shock. It is impossible to tell, so he crosses to the bed and sits gingerly upon its side; sets the first-aid kit by his hip.

"I need to dress your wing and it'll probably hurt, but after I've got some nice fish you can have."

The crane cocks his head at that, something Erik still finds puzzling and more than a little awkward. It is as though the crane is unimpressed with Erik's patronizing, though Erik didn't mean it as such. He simply has no idea how to talk to an injured bird--and the ridiculousness of talking to an injured bird does not escape him. It does not stop him from saying, "Fine, I'll eat the fish, but I still need to dress your wing."

He shifts closer, the crane unmoving, exhibiting a trust Erik's not sure anyone or anything has ever given him, not even his rats. He still reaches slowly for the bird's wing, handling it gingerly, the crane allowing it, Erik spreading it across the bed to get a better look.

He has no real idea how to go about fixing a crane's wing, so he tries to imagine it as no different from a human arm. He cleans the wound, having to retreat to the kitchen for a bowl of soapy water and a cloth first. The crane endures the procedure with only a slight cry when Erik washes around the wound. When he's done, he places a piece of cotton batting on either side of the arrow's hole, and then slowly wraps gauze around the wing, tight enough to keep the batting in place, loose enough to allow for circulation. It reminds him painfully of the wounds he helped dress in the camps, though then there were never clean supplies, or even clean water, too often those in his care losing limbs or life to infection.

When he is done, he sits back and eyes his handwork, the crane still calm, watching Erik with the same steady gaze as before. He is still bleeding; blood soaking through the batting and the wrapping to stain the gauze in red, but Erik doesn't know what else to do. He leaves the crane where it is and begins cleaning up his mess.

It is only then, the surge of adrenaline that came with finding the crane having faded, that Erik realizes what he's done. He has no idea what to do with an injured crane. He doesn't even know if what he's done will help or hinder. He can't very well place it back outside--he doubts it can fly--and that means he now has a companion to share in his convalescence.

The thought is almost comical, Erik chuckling under his breath as he tucks supplies back into the first aid kit, setting it atop his dresser instead of back under the bed. He tidies the discarded supplies, blood stained and dirty from cleaning the crane's wounds. When he is done, he returns to the bed, the crane still seated upon it, looking impossibly small and improbably fragile.

"Are you hungry?" he asks. The crane stares back, huddling in on itself. Something tugs at Erik's chest, making it hard to swallow.

Belatedly, he realizes he's still wearing his coat and boots. He leaves the crane where it is and crosses to sit on the edge of his steamer trunk, ribs pulling awkwardly as he bends over to pull off his boots. His floors are a mess of melted snow and mud, Erik hesitating only briefly before tucking his feet into an old pair of slippers.

He removes his coat next, hanging it beside the door, pausing then with his hands on his scarf. The wool is warm from where it's been sitting around his neck. He glances to the crane; finds it watching him with patient curiosity.

"Don't expect me to do this every day," he says, unwinding the scarf and carrying it to the bed. He wraps it into a loosely coiled ball, sets it on the bed's right side and then returns his attention to the crane. "On three," he says, rolling his eyes even as he moves towards it, careful hands sliding beneath the crane's belly. The crane accepts the handling gracefully. Erik feels its warmth against his hands, the steady beat of the crane's heart pulsing against his palm. The crane's sides expand and contract as it breathes. It strikes Erik then that this is the first time he's had another living being inside his cabin. Raven only made it as far as the front door.

He counts slowly to three and then lifts the crane, moving it into the centre of the scarf, where it shifts and nestles, using its beak to rearrange the scarf, adjusting its makeshift nest. Erik leaves him to it and crosses to the kitchen.

He sets the smallest of his fish aside on a dented metal plate. The others he cleans and fillets, then wraps in foil to take the stove. The crane is watching him when he crosses back into the main room, looking decidedly perky, as though it's smelled the fish and knows dinner is coming. Erik huffs a laugh.

"All right," he says, setting his foil on top of the woodstove and then returning to the kitchen. He brings the metal plate to the crane, setting it just inside the reach of the crane's neck. The crane remains motionless, though when Erik turns away, heading back to the stove to add another log and get his supper cooking, he can hear the faint scratch-scratch of the crane's beak against the plate.

It is somewhat strange to share his space with someone else, even a bird incapable of communicating. He doesn't speak to it, save for the occasional exchange of words whenever he catches it watching him. He mostly ignores it, or tries to, acutely aware of its presence; another heartbeat in the house when for too long he's contended with only the hollow echo of his own.

He moves swiftly through his nightly routine: eats dinner, washes the dishes and puts away his clutter, always aware of the weight of the crane's gaze. When he is done, he stands on the threshold between his lit main room and the darkened kitchen, the crane having laid its head upon the bed, eyes still open, watching Erik intently.

Erik glances to the front door, and then to the lit lamp next to his bed.

"I usually turn the generator off," he says, not certain why it matters. The crane's presence shouldn't make any difference, and yet he thinks about shutting down his cabin, throwing it into cold darkness; envisions the crane alone and frightened, and cannot bring himself to do it. "This is just for tonight," he says, moving to his door; bolting the locks and placing the bar across it. The shutters are still shut tight, the cabin an oasis in a sea of frozen desert. Erik eyes the bed and realizes he will have to somehow share the space with the crane.

He contemplates moving it--onto the floor or even the steamer trunk, but the crane's breathing has evened out, it sides rising and falling in steady increments, Erik loath to disrupt its rest.

He adds another log to the fire and then stands at the foot of the bed, eyeing the crane uncertainly. The crane lifts his head and gives a call, Erik rolling his eyes. 

"I don't snore, if that's what you're worried about," he says, laughing to himself.

It seems to break the awkwardness of the situation, Erik climbing onto the bed. It takes a good deal of shifting to get under the covers without disrupting the crane, Erik's ribs aching with the effort, but he manages it. The crane is still watching him, though there is no hesitation in its gaze. It has decided Erik is safe; permits Erik into its space. Erik gives it a brief nod, and then, without thinking, reaching out with his powers and pulls at the metal chain of the room's only lamp. The room falls into the darkness, broken only by the still-lit stove, tiny window of dancing flame casting a warm orange light across the bed. It catches the crane's eyes, reflecting against their blue, Erik flushing when he realizes what he's done. It is only a bird, but this marks the first time Erik has overtly used his powers before a witness. He feels strangely chagrined, but shakes off the sensation, closing his eyes and trying for sleep.

The crane remains a steady point of warmth at his side.


	7. Chapter 7

Sunlight floods the cabin, Erik blinking; the sight as strange as it is unexpected. He is used to waking before the sun; his internal clock unerring in its precision. Stranger still is that he's slept through the night, Erik having no recollection of having dreamt, his usual nightmares strangely absent. He opens his eyes slowly; stares at the ceiling and frowns, too much light filtering through the room. Erik turns his head; spots the window through which the sunlight is streaming, its shutter hanging askew.

It is then he notices the crane, seeming far larger in the soft light of day than it had last night.

Yesterday comes back to him in a rush.

He sits bolt-upright, the movement jarring his ribs, a wave of pain bowling him over, Erik wrapping a protective hand around his middle. He lets out a strangled curse, even as he tries to steady his breathing, body going very tense as he tries not to move. It is some time before his dizziness clears; several minutes before his nausea fades. Only then does he turn his attention back to the crane.

It is sitting where Erik left it left night, curled inside Erik's scarf, fully alert and watching Erik like Erik's antics are particularly amusing. Erik's not quite sure what to make of that. He clears his throat, words escaping him, though he's not entirely certain what he needs to say. He doesn't owe the crane an explanation, and even if he did, it's not like the crane would understand.

In the end, he says nothing, blinking at the crane while the crane continues to stare, impassive. It is almost startling to realize how large the bird truly is, Erik feeling suddenly awkward, second guessing his decision to bring a wild animal into his home.

It strikes him then that he's spent the night sleeping peacefully with this bird at his side. Erik hasn't shared his bed with anyone since the camps, and then it wasn't by choice--bodies penned in like cattle, bony hips and elbows digging into sore and abused flesh, too often Erik waking next to a corpse. The crane is very much alive; calmly watching Erik, as though waiting to see what Erik intends to do, still too trusting by far.

It has burrowed into Erik's scarf, the fire having gone out overnight, the temperature inside the cabin little better than out. The hum of the generator is still going, an odd hiccup suggesting its running low on fuel. Erik stares at the crane for another minute--the crane staring resolutely back. He climbs from the bed. Feet on the floor, he glances back only once before crossing to the woodstove to get a fire going.

"It'll get warm in a minute," he says, berating himself for speaking to the crane, never mind that the crane has been living outside and should be well-used to the cold. He shakes his head, replaces the stove's lid and then comes to stand in the middle of the room.

The crane hasn't moved.

It is strange not to have to don coat and boots and head out to start the generator and pump, Erik momentarily uncertain what to do with himself. He ends up heading into the kitchen, where he fills a kettle for coffee and a pot for washing. He brings them both to the stove.

He's intensely aware of the crane watching his every movement, entirely too docile for something that ought to be wild. He wonders then if he's stumbled upon someone's pet; or perhaps the thing escaped from a zoo. He can think of no other reason for it to remain curled in the centre of Erik's bed, unconcerned with the strange cabin and even stranger man. Erik shakes his head; turns to stare out the now open window.

The shutter is hanging off the one side, the screws having come loose--Erik can feel where they're missing--though without heading outside, Erik can't be sure what has happened. He's had them knock loose before, though usually in bad weather and last night was free of wind. He adds it to his chore list for the day, along with cleaning his floors, dismantling his traps and re-examining the crane's wing.

From its place on the bed, the crane gives a cry.

It's a shrill, echoing _caw_ , ill contained by Erik's tiny cabin. Erik winces, even as he turns. He finds the crane struggling to stand, broken wing held against its body, healthy wing outstretched for balance.

Instinct moves him forward before his brain has a chance to catch up with the situation. "You're going to..." he gets out, reaching the crane just before the crane tumbles off the edge of the bed, Erik catching it around the chest, careful not to touch its bandaged wing. He lifts it back into the centre of the bed, the crane struggling, though only until it gets its balance; then it settles immediately. Erik releases his hold; finds himself staring into the crane's eyes, the crane easily reaching Erik's height from atop the bed.

Erik takes a step back. "You're probably hungry," he says, looking away. The crane doesn't answer.

He has no real idea what cranes eat, except fish, but he doesn't think that extends to the salted cod and whitefish he has stored in his cupboards. He does have some air-dried stockfish in a tin from last season, as well as some crisp bread and turnips--lots of turnips. He leaves the crane standing in the middle of the bed and backs his way into the kitchen, where he makes up a plate with a little of each, mentally calculating how feeding the crane will affect his rations. 

It occurs to him then that the crane probably needs water, so he fills a small bowl and brings it, along with the food, into the main room. The crane is sitting again, though now in the middle of Erik's side of the bed, half tucked into the displaced covers.

"You were cold," Erik guesses. He hesitates briefly before placing the plate and bowl on the bed, the crane giving another cry. Erik tries not to recoil, though he does flinch. The crane looks oddly chagrined.

Erik shakes the thought off and moves back to the stove.

There's a small fire going now, though it isn't generating much heat. He pushes aside the kettle and pot--neither boiled--opens the stove lid and adds another log. When he turns back to the crane, he finds it picking at its plate. Apparently the turnips were appreciated. Erik lifts an eyebrow, but doesn't comment. Instead he returns to the kitchen to fetch his own breakfast.

By the time he's done, the crane's plate is empty and the water is boiling.

"We should see to your wing," he says, though he honestly has no idea what he's doing. It is entirely possible the crane will never fly again; that Erik will be stuck with a lifelong companion. Strangely, the thought is not an unpleasant one, however much it'll mean reassessing his needs. He has enough food to last him the winter, but given what the crane has just eaten, he suspects his stocks will run low before January is out. He makes a mental note to reduce his consumption. He's hardly a stranger to reduced caloric intake, after all.

At least the crane doesn't drink coffee, he thinks with a rueful grin as he carries his kettle into the kitchen, water splashing against his gloved hand as he pours it into his percolator. Coffee is expensive; one of the few luxuries Erik allows himself. When he is done, he pours the kettle's remaining water into a shallow bowl and then sets the still-hot kettle in the sink.

He adds cold water from the tap to the bowl until the water is just the other side of lukewarm, and then brings the bowl into the main room, setting it on his nightstand. The crane continues to watch him curiously. Erik ignores it; fetches the first-aid kit off his chest of drawers and brings it to the bed.

He has to climb across the bed to reach the crane now, Erik removing the now empty plate and water bowl, setting them both on the floor next to the bed.

"I need to," he says, gesturing to the bird's wing. The crane cocks its head. Erik takes that as permission.

He has no idea what he was expecting, but the crane doesn't move; it sits there, placid as ever, calmly letting Erik handle its wing. It watches him the entire time, Erik slightly unnerved by its steady gaze. He does his best to ignore it; concentrates instead on unwrapping the old gauze, cotton batting soaked through with blood.

At least the wound seems to have stopped bleeding.

He sets aside the old dressing and wets a cloth in the bowl, water spilling over the edge to land on Erik's pocket watch. Unthinking--much like last night--he shifts it aside with a mental nudge, the watch sliding behind the protective shelter of the hurricane lamp. He wrings out the cloth and then turns back to the crane.

"Even that doesn't put you off," he says, shaking his head because he's fairly certain any human who saw him do that would immediately reach for a weapon. Erik has no delusions. He knows the human mind. People fear what they can't understand. They hate anything different. He may have the town's respect, even the admiration of a few people, but they would turn on him in a heartbeat if they knew what he could do. Even Raven would turn from him in fear.

The crane doesn't appear to care. It merely sits and endures Erik's cleaning, watching Erik intently, as trusting as it is tame. Erik finishes his work, adds new cotton batting and then wraps the wing in fresh gauze. When he is done, the crane pulls its wing back against its body.

Erik tidies his mess.

He's not used to sharing his space, Erik hesitating as he stands from the bed and moves to the stove to retrieve water for his shave. He feels like he ought to narrate what he's doing or at least offer some vague form of polite conversation. He's not used to conversation--during the off season, he can go weeks without saying a single word, his life lived in utter silence. Even when the fish are plentiful he rarely speaks, except to call orders on Azazel's boat, or distract from Raven's inane chatter. He's certainly not about to start a conversation with a crane.

He's still halfway through his shave before his awkwardness dissipates, tension finally loosening his shoulders. He stares into his mirror, shuttered sunlight painting the bathroom in soft reds and dark greens. It reflects off his skin, making him look paler than he usually does. He has to bend almost in half to reach his sink; to splash water on his face, rinsing away the remainder of his shaving foam. When he's done, he drains and rinses the sink, and then begins the slow, arduous task of pulling his undershirt over his head.

The light above the sink is flickering now, the generator slowly running out of fuel, making it hard for Erik to see the bruising, though what he can see looks worse than last night. A sign it's healing, he knows, though it's hard not to recoil from the deep purples and sickening yellows. He runs a hand over his side, glad to find the swelling has gone down, and then reaches for the cloth he left sitting on the sink's edge.

He brings it with him into the main room, ignoring the crane still nestled in his bed as he dips it in the pot on the stove, ringing out water just this side of too hot. He spends an idle minute running the cloth over his torso, washing away yesterday's salt and sweat. It is only when he runs the cloth down his forearm, over his hated tattoo, that he feels the awkwardness of the situation. He glances up then; finds the crane watching him, Erik turning away, keeping his arm very carefully held against him. He tosses the cloth back into the pot and moves to his chest of drawers, where he retrieves a clean long sleeve undershirt, glad to cover the marking.

There isn't a single person in the town who knows his history for all that it's branded onto his skin. Erik is vigilant in keeping it hidden. He has no idea why that now extends to a bird, but old habits die hard and Erik has no interest in letting his childhood mark stand as his identity. He spent too many years as a number.

Covering the tattoo does little to ease the awkwardness of changing in front of the crane, Erik hesitating briefly before gathering the remainder of the day's clothes and carrying them along with rest of the water into the bathroom. He closes the door behind him, the first time he's done so in perhaps the entire time he's lived here. His bathroom feels strangely hollow; smells sharply of his shaving foam.

Erik strips off his trousers--not an easy task given his ribs--and sets them aside. His underwear land atop his discarded undershirt, both destined for the washing machine. The light above the sink flares once and then goes out, the last of the generator's fuel burned away. Erik's left in the dark, but soon enough his eyes adjust, Erik taking the time to piss and then wash his hands before he slips on a clean pair of briefs. Only when he is fully dressed does he open the door, the sound of the toilet refilling oddly loud, seeming to carry around the cabin, announcing what he's just done; a ridiculous thing to worry about given how often Erik's pissed and shat in front of an audience.

The crane is exactly where he left it.

Erik pads barefoot across dirty floors to the kitchen, where he pours a cup of coffee, warm enough to soothe any lingering chill, but cool enough to guzzle in one long gulp. He sets his cup down on the counter and turns back to the crane.

"I have to go out for a bit this morning," he says, not quite certain why he feels the need to explain his impending absence. The crane lifts its head; clacks its beak in Erik's direction. Erik has no idea what that's supposed to mean. He nods all the same; retrieves a pair of socks from his drawer and carries them to the steamer trunk. "If you could avoid shitting on my bed, I'd appreciate it."

He doesn't say anything else, pulling on boots and coat--he'll want a sweater later, but the thought of pulling one over his head makes his ribs ache. He reaches for his scarf next, only to find the hook empty. A quick glance shows it still lying on the bed, where the crane was sleeping. Erik contemplates leaving it; instead he moves to retrieve it, strangely disappointed when he finds the fabric no longer warm. He loops it around his neck.

He thinks about saying goodbye; berates himself and then heads outside.

He stands for several minutes on the front porch, blinking at the too-bright light, taking in the soft dusting of snow, his tracks from last night still clearly visible. He breathes deep the frosty air, lungs constructing, ribs aching. It is cold without a sweater, but he finds it invigorating. He can't remember the last time he felt so thoroughly awake; so thoroughly rested.

He doesn't linger long in appreciation; the day is quietly slipping away and he has work to do. He moves first to his shutter, finds it hanging awkwardly by one hinge. The other is lying on his porch, Erik bending slowly to retrieve it. All of its screws are missing. He stands then and examines the side of the cabin, but there is no sign they were ripped out by wind or weather. Pristine holes still mark their place in the cabin's wood. Erik reaches out with his powers; scans the immediate area, but finds nothing.

He finds no prints either, despite the snow, nothing to suggest someone has stolen his screws--and who would do such a thing? He narrows his gaze, pulls the screws from the second hinge loose so that he can take the shutter down. He'll need to dig through his work shed for supplies before he puts it back up. For now he leaves it; heads back to switch off the generator so that he can replenish its gasoline.

He's oddly reluctant to leave the cabin, though he can't say why. It isn't that he's worried about leaving the crane alone or even that he's worried about his missing screws--it is entirely possible they were his doing, some forgotten nightmare taking control of his powers. It wouldn't be the first time. It is something else; anxiety he hasn't felt since he was a boy leaving his family's home in the ghetto. Every time he went out to look for food or to find work, there was always the worry he would come home to find his family gone; to discover he was alone. That's not how it happened, but the end result was the same.

Erik shakes off the thought; restarts the generator and then crosses to the front of the cabin.

He hears the pump switch on almost as soon as the power's back on, water knocking in the pipes as it surges forward, chasing out air bubbles. It runs for only a minute; reassurance that nothing has burst in the middle of the night. Erik doesn't look back as he starts down the hill, despite the intense desire to do exactly that.

He usually walks his trap line with anticipation, but now he feels only trepidation. He should have taken them down last night, after his revelation, but the crane occupied the whole of his attention. He reaches the first trap, relief nearly buckling his knees when he finds it empty. He dismantles it quickly, meaning then to tuck it into his pocket, except that when he sticks his hand inside, something sharp cuts against his fingertips. Erik curses, drawing his hand back, a well of blood blossoming on the tip of his middle finger.

He places the finger in his mouth and sucks.

Only when the stinging subsides does he place his hand back into his pocket, carefully this time, pulling out the broken pieces of the crane's arrow. In last night's excitement, he forgot about it, but he stares at it now, wonders where it came from and who it was meant for. Surely a hunter taking down a crane would want to claim it; wouldn't leave it for Erik to rescue, unless it went astray, its owner losing track of its trajectory. Erik twirls it between his fingers, the memory of his found feather coming to the forefront of his thoughts. He shakes it aside; concentrates instead on examining the arrow.

A simple wooden shaft, elegantly turned and polished smooth by some kind of wax, the arrow tip is a bevelled metal, its end a plume of some kind of feather--emu, Erik thinks. It's cut in the middle, Erik's doing, his knife in need of sharpening; it's left a jagged edge. Erik brings the shaft to his nose and inhales deeply. It smells of resin.

"Who shot you?" he asks out loud, the first time he's done that in memory. He decides the crane is probably to blame. He tucks the arrow back into his pocket, point away from his body, and continues on.

He waits until he's collected all his traps--all thankfully empty--before returning to the site where he found the crane. It is easy to find, the snow still stained with blood, a plume of feathers left behind. Erik crouches next to the bloodied snow; traces the indent of the crane's body with shaking fingers.

His own footprints are clearly visible in the snow, as is the place where he dropped to his knees. Erik stands then; scans the area for anything out of place, but finds nothing. It is impossible to tell where the arrow came from. He doesn't know if the crane was standing or in flight. It might have moved; might have twisted in its fall, wings beating to keep it from impacting harder than it did. A sharp stab of something that might be worry spikes in his chest, Erik suddenly unable to breathe. The traps in his pocket clink together as he sets off for his cabin, steps hurried, Erik no longer concerned with piecing together a puzzle.

The cabin, when it comes into view, is unchanged, seemingly idyllic; an oasis in the middle of the forest. He approaches it cautiously, glancing once to his shutter-less window and then to the ground beneath his feet. There are no tracks save his own and a dozen or so different animals. The fox has been back, as have the gulls, their tracks clearly visible in yesterday's snow; Erik steps carefully around them, uncertain why the impulse strikes.

When he reaches his front door he hesitates, thinks briefly of knocking, though the ludicrousness of the thought strikes him a minute later and he simply walks inside. His eyes dart first for the bed, but the crane is no longer nestled amongst his covers. Panic sieges in Erik's chest, his heart hammering against his ribcage as he takes a step forward--he hasn't been gone that long; less than an hour. A cry from the bathroom startles him badly enough that he jumps, already reaching out for the metal in the cabin.

The crane emerges from behind the half-closed door. It calls again.

Its wounded wing hangs awkwardly at its side, but aside from that it seems as healthy as Erik remembers it from the path and the docks. They stare at each other for several minutes before the crane moves forward; crosses to Erik's bed where it half jumps half flies--awkward with one wing--until it is once again nestled amongst the still unmade covers. Erik blinks; turns to stare through the bathroom door, where the light above the sink now pulses with full brightness.

Something on the floor catches his eye, Erik stepping forward, ignoring his boots as he comes to stand inside the bathroom door. There, sitting next to the toilet, is a pile of what Erik can only assume is crane scat. He blinks; turns then to glance over his shoulder. The crane is still watching him from the bed.

"That is vaguely alarming, you know," he says.

The crane gives another cry, softer than this morning, as though it is purposely keeping its voice low. Erik nods, not certain what it means to say, but it has respected his wishes about not shitting in the bed, so agreeing with its vocalization seems the least he can do.

"I'll put down some paper next time," he adds, moving into the kitchen to dump both the arrow and the traps out onto the table. He had plans of going into town this morning; of buying fresh fish for the crane and maybe bread for him, but he thinks instead he'll put that off until the afternoon; see about fixing the shutter and further securing the cabin.


	8. Chapter 8

He opens the shutters once they're re-installed, reasoning the crane might appreciate some natural light. It is not something Erik craves. He has lived whole swaths of his life in darkness. There is something comforting in remaining hidden--closeted away from prying eyes.

He putters outside for a while, checking his perimeter--again--tidying his work shed and carrying wood into the house. The day is growing long; the sun radiating enough heat to chase away the chill but not enough melt the snow. On his second trip in with a load of wood, the work heavy for a man with bruised ribs, Erik leaves the door ajar, unwilling to fumble with logs and locks. On his next trip in, he finds the crane poking its head out the door. Erik pauses, standing on the threshold between his wood shelter and the cabin, and watches.

The crane steps out onto the porch.

Erik half expects it to attempt to fly away, something tightening in his chest as he contemplates dropping his load of wood and rushing to the crane's side. He has no right to keep it, though, even if its leaving would mean certain death, so instead he shifts his weight; waits and watches. The crane spots him; gives a cry and glances to the sky.

Several minutes pass before Erik decides it's not going to leave. He picks his way carefully across the lawn then, passing the crane on the porch as he makes his way inside. He leaves his load in a neat pile next to the stove. When Erik heads back outside, the crane is still on the porch.

He hasn't considered how he's going to get the crane back into the house when he's done, the thought worrying him until he climbs onto the porch for the last time, the crane staring like it's half expecting an order. Erik pauses, shifts the weight of the wood in his arms, and asks, "Are you hungry?"

The crane doesn't answer, but by the time Erik's transported the wood inside and set it next to the first two piles, the crane has re-entered the cabin; is standing expectantly beside the bed. Erik gives it a brief nod and crosses the room to close the door.

He takes his time shucking off coat and boots, stamping warmth into his toes before he moves into the kitchen. The crane is in the middle of climbing onto the bed, far more mobile than Erik would have suspected. It holds its wing awkwardly, as though uncertain what to do with it, but it's still able to scramble onto the mattress, taking its now customary place in the divot on Erik's side of the bed.

If its wing pains it, it shows no sign.

For lunch--late, the day having gotten away from him--Erik feeds it more stockfish and turnip. The crane eats the turnip first, somewhat eagerly. Erik has no idea how often cranes need to eat, but it hasn't complained too loudly about the feeding schedule. After lunch, it curls up in the centre of Erik's bed, head tucked under its good wing.

There is something both strange and humbling about watching the bird fall asleep in his company. It catches in Erik's chest until he cannot bring himself to look away. His own lunch sits before him, Erik staring over the tabletop at the crane, suddenly very conscious of every noise he makes; the crunching of his crisp bread and the creaking of the floorboards beneath his chair. He finishes his lunch in exaggerated silence; pauses only to clear his dishes to the sink before crossing back into the main room. The crane remains still and quiet, only the gentle rising and falling of its sides telling Erik it's still alive.

He watches it for several minutes and then shakes his head; moving then to his chest of drawers to retrieve a cable-knit sweater from the bottom drawer. The sweater, heavy and warm, the colour of slate, has a wide collar held together with a single roughly-cut wooden button. It makes it easy to pull over his head, though Erik still grits his teeth as he does, wincing when his ribs pull awkwardly. When he is done, he glances again to the crane.

It hasn't moved, and though he wanted to go into town today, he is loath to leave. His earlier apprehension still sits heavy in his breast and the thought of leaving while the crane is asleep--of the crane waking cold and alone--sours his stomach. Erik shakes his head, crosses instead to the stove and adds another log to the fire. He pulls the kitchen chair close and sits.

There is something almost hypnotic about watching the rise and fall of the crane's chest. Erik sinks further into his chair, ensconced in his sweater, the stove a warm point of dry heat at his side. His limbs grow heavy. He is sore and aching from a day of work, and worry still stirs in his breast, despite his tour of the property; the reassurance that he is alone. He drifts at some point, not really meaning to, but there is something lulling in the crackling hiss of the fire against the otherwise stillness of the cabin.

When he wakes, it is with a kink in his neck and rumble in his stomach, the light inside the cabin having grown dim. Erik can't remember the last time he slept during the day; and this after a full night of relatively good sleep. He sits up abruptly, regretting the movement a minute later, but he has little time to contemplate it, Erik's gaze falling on the crane, who is now sitting in the middle of the bed, watching Erik intently. Erik clears his throat.

"I don't suppose you know what time it is?" he asks, chuckling to himself. He's conversing with a crane now. The isolation is obviously getting to him.

His pocket watch is still hidden behind his hurricane lamp, but instead of sailing it across the room--subtle displays are one thing, grandiose gestures another--he stands and crosses to his nightstand, body stiff from having slept in a chair.

It brings him close to the bed, the crane tracking his movements, though with obvious trust. Erik feels a momentary spike of uncertainty, tension creeping into his shoulders, as though he's overstepping propriety by crossing into the crane's space. He blames the sensation on the fading light and the still heavy fog of sleep. He does his best to stamp it down, and then flips open the watch and notes the time; an hour before sunset.

The trip into town is no longer on the schedule for today. Erik will have to leave first thing in the morning. Fortunately, the crane seems to like turnips, and Erik has those in abundance. He sets the watch back down on the nightstand and then crosses to the stove to stoke dying embers until they glow red hot. He adds more wood and then moves into the kitchen, pausing only to wash his hands before he starts prep for his supper. A soup tonight; it will need a few hours on the stove, but in the meantime his floors still need washing and his shutters latching. Erik is not used to idle moments, his nap notwithstanding. Idleness means death, his father used to say, back even before the ghettos, when a full day's work meant food on the table and a roof over their heads.

It feels good to do something productive, so he chops turnips and potatoes, setting aside a little raw for the bird and tossing the rest into a cast iron pot. He has lutefisk he can add to the soup right at the end, and more dried stockfish for the crane. Erik takes his time, getting lost in the motions of something that reminds him so much of his mother. He's lost the memory of the meals she used to make, but he remembers her making them; remembers, too, his sister, sitting at their mother's feet, their mother stepping carefully around her, graceful as she was kind.

When the pot is on the stove and the prep mess is cleaned up, Erik slips on his boots, ignoring the crane's raised head as he heads to the door. He forgoes coat and scarf--there is only the one shutter he's left open--and steps outside. He finds its hinges secure, screws firmly in place, so Erik closes them over, latches them in the middle and then heads back inside. The crane hops off the end of the bed.

Erik watches as it moves across the room, seeming more confident now that it's spent an entire day living with Erik, as though it's gotten a feel for the cabin. It heads straight into the bathroom, Erik blinking, momentarily stunned when he realizes what the crane's doing. He turns then to offer the crane some privacy, though why that seems important he doesn't know. He's cleaned up the mess from earlier and laid down some paper, though he is still surprised when the crane re-emerges, Erik glancing past it to find it has indeed used the paper.

"Who trained you?" Erik asks, because he's beginning to feel like he's stolen something that doesn't belong to him, however much the crane seems to enjoy his company--however much Erik is growing increasingly fond of the crane's.

In lieu of an answer, the crane shakes its head, ruffling it body, good wing coming briefly out, the injured one remaining tight against its body.

The crane doesn't return to the bed, instead following Erik around the room as Erik tidies and straightens the day's mess. When he cleans up the crane's mess, the crane clacks at him, but aside from that it remains silent. Erik sets down new paper and the retrieves a broom from behind the bathroom door.

His floors aren't half as bad as they were last night, then still wet from tracked in snow, but he takes his time sweeping them, pausing once in the middle to stir his soup. The crane seems content to follow in Erik's wake, probably glad for the exercise after practically an entire day sitting in the bed. _You need rest to heal_ , Erik wants to tell it, but the crane won't understand, and even if it did, it would be a hypocritical thing for him to say. When he's done sweeping, he gets a bucket and mop. The crane hops onto the steamer trunk--it takes two tries, Erik almost giving in and lending it a hand--and cocks its head.

Cleaning floors is no different from cleaning a ship's deck, Erik quite skilled at it. His mother would no doubt say he used too much water; didn't wring or rinse the mop often enough. Her floors were always pristine, even in the ghetto, something that should have been impossible and yet she always managed. Erik does the best he can, the crane watching him intently. When he's done, he puts away the mop and bucket and washes his hands.

He dries them on a discarded towel, pausing after to run a thumb over the back of his knuckles, the skin dry and red from work and over-washing. They still don't feel clean, but then they never do. Sometimes Erik stares at the back of his hands and sees only the blackened ash of the camps; bits of people stuck beneath his fingernails.

He blinks away the memory, surprised to find his cheeks have grown damp. Erik turns his back on the crane, wipes angrily at his tears and then begins the slow process of getting their supper ready.

The crane doesn't complain too bitterly at the repeat meal--only another beak clack that Erik is starting to suspect might be its way of expressing irritation. It placidly eats its stockfish and turnips. Erik ladles a bowl of soup and takes his place at the table. He eats in silence, the crane still perched on the steamer trunk, intent on its own meal.

After dinner, Erik replaces its empty plate with a bowl of water and starts in on the dishes, the cold of the water stinging against the cut on his finger. The crane's arrow still sits on the table, along with Erik's traps. He has no idea what to do with either. When he is done, he stands in the middle of the kitchen, not entirely certain what to do with himself. It is still early and he is far from tired. The crane looks just as rested, and although Erik knows he should leave the bird to its own devices, spend the night as he always does--lost to reading or any number of inane chores--he cannot bring himself to ignore the bird completely.

"What did you do in the wild?" he asks, a stupid question, because it's not as if the bird can answer and, besides, Erik's still half convinced he has someone's pet. He rephrases. "I have to go check the property and turn off the generator. You're welcome to come if you'd like."

He doesn't leave right away; instead he adds another log to the fire, ensures it's bright and warm and then fills a pot of water for washing that he leaves on the stove. When he's done, he lights his hurricane lamp and then slips into coat and boots and heads outside.

To his surprise, the crane hops down from the trunk and follows. Erik leaves the door open and steps out onto the porch.

It is a clear night, thousands of pinpricks of light spread across the sky. The newly risen moon illuminates the landscape until it is almost as bright as day. Erik breathes deep, feeling a twinge in his ribs, but he is getting used to them now. He steps down off the porch, the snow crunching beneath his feet.

He has no idea why he does this every night. He's spent two years in this place, and never once has his rest been disturbed. Even the police boat and dinghy are no excuse--certainly they don't explain why this is already routine. Logically, he knows the Nazis aren't going to show up in the middle of the night and drag him kicking and screaming from his bed, however much it's happened before. There were signs, the writing on the wall long before it happened. Erik knows what to look for now. He knows, too, how to hide; is better at it than his family ever was.

Erik starts around to the back of the cabin. The crane follows at his side.

"I should name you," he says, laughing slightly.

The crane gives another clack.

"It would have to be something neutral. I don't even know if you're a boy or a girl."

The crane clacks louder, the sound breaking the stillness of the night; echoing off the surrounding rocks. Erik laughs.

"Well, I'm not going to check."

It is darker around the backside of the cabin, the moonlight blocked by the house. Erik reaches out with his power, but feels nothing--no, that's not accurate, his senses drawing him to two tiny pricks of metal just beyond his pump house. Erik frowns; concentrates on the twin pieces, almost exactly duplicates. He picks his way towards them. He knows before he reaches them that he's found his screws. Tension coils between his shoulder blades. Erik glances to the crane.

"I think we should go in," he says, wanting then the security of his walls and his rifle. The crane gives another clack, the sound somehow reassuring. Some of Erik's tension lessens. He floats the screws up to his hand, scans the property again and then moves to the pump house. He flicks it off, letting the water settle before moving to the generator. Eerie silence fills the night as he cuts its power.

Erik doesn't relax until he is back inside the cabin, the crane following him without complaint, his door bolted firmly shut behind them.

He sets the two screws down on the table, next to the arrow. They roll towards the arrow's tip; still magnetized from their contact with him. Erik watches them firmly attach to the arrow's point. He wonders briefly if this was his doing.

Across the room, the crane gives another clack. When Erik doesn't immediately turn, it gives a cry.

Erik glances over his shoulder and finds the crane sitting in his bed, in the exact same space it slept last night. It's bathed in the soft light of the hurricane lamp, the white of its feathers illuminated in shades of pink.

"Sorry, your wing," Erik says, screws abandoned but not forgotten.

The water on stove isn't yet hot, though it holds enough warmth that when Erik retrieves a bowl of it he's forced to set it aside, allowing it to come to room temperature as he gathers the rest of his supplies.

The spike of paranoia that has lingered since finding the screws begins to dissipate, despite his instincts to cling to it--paranoia has always kept him safe. He tells himself the screws were likely his doing; who else could have moved them from the front of the house to the back; buried them in the snow. He was no doubt dreaming, something that used to happen with some frequency before Erik mastered his power. He lets the last of his tension drain and moves to perch on the edge of the bed.

"This must be tremendously boring for you," he says as he works, unwinding the old gauze, cleaning the wound and then replacing it with new. The crane tolerates the procedure just as well as it did the first two times.

Life inside his cabin can be stifling sometimes, even for him. He cannot imagine how the crane--a creature of grace and beauty, designed for gliding across the heavens, free from the monotony of daily existence--endures this life. Erik feels incredibly selfish for coveting its company, however new the revelation. He feels, too, a keen sense of envy, because someday the crane will heal and then it will be free again; untethered by the mortal coil.

"I told you you should have flown south," he says as he ties off the new gauze, though the wound is healing nicely, the cotton batting only matted with blood.

The crane gives no answering clack, though it does meet his gaze, steady and almost sad, Erik swallowing against sudden tightness in his throat. He tears his gaze away.

He tidies his mess and then takes the rest of the hot water into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him before using the toilet and then slowly stripping out of his clothes. He washes away the worst of the day, rough cloth moving over scarred skin and lean muscle sitting on a brittle frame. When he is done, he pulls back on his underthings and moves to the sink to brush his teeth; a difficult task with the generator off, the bathroom bathed in darkness.

It is still too early and he is nowhere near tired, but he has run out of things to occupy his attention. If he was alone, he would curl into bed with one of Raven's books--though not that one--and read until he succumbed to the siren call of slumber. It is only a crane, he tells himself, like a cat or a dog, something that doesn't care if he reads or darns the holes in his sweaters. Erik stares at his shadowed reflection, features dim and haunted, like a mannequin painted in monochrome. It is like staring into the past, his reflection a boy of fifteen. He pours the rest of his water down the sink, tosses his discarded clothes into his washing machine and then leaves the bathroom.

The hurricane lamp casts the main room in soft, warm light. There is something vaguely appealing about crawling into bed, crane or no crane. Erik squares his shoulders as he crosses to the stove. He adds more wood, the fire flaring, heat licking at his fingertips as he replaces the lid. He exhales sharply and then moves to his bookshelf.

He's finished the mystery, the revelation exactly as he predicted. Raven's other book is still tucked away near the back of his shelf, Erik ignoring it, just as he ignores the others from that same lot. None of the titles draw his attention, Erik scanning through his older collection. He has quite a few favourites.

One in particular draws his gaze, Erik pausing with his finger on the spine: a paperback, its cover tattered and torn with age and use, Erik having read it several times now. Erik slides his finger up to its corner and pulls until it comes away from the others. He slips it out, turning it in his hand to stare at the grotesque figure on the cover.

"This was one of the first English books I read," he says, thumb tracing over Shelley's name. "It's about a man who creates a monster, but the monster wants to be a man and the man turns out to be the monster." He pauses then, gives a slight shrug, wry smile settling across his face. "I've known a lot of monsters in my day."

He glances up then, catching the crane's eye. He gets no reply--not that he was expecting one--but the crane does fluff out its good wing, reaching forward with its beak to grab at Erik's blankets, pulling them closer to his body. Erik chuckles.

He glances then to the chair beside the stove, illuminated by the hurricane lamp, but with nowhere enough light for reading. He glances back to the bed.

There isn't much space, Erik not fully realizing just how close he'd slept to the crane. The crane seems unconcerned with his dilemma, settling itself further into the spot it occupied last night, having left Erik's divot free this time. Erik glances to where his scarf now hangs on a hook by the door; contemplates placing it on the trunk and transferring the crane there. A glance back to the crane shows it preening its feathers, bandaged wing still held close to its body.

"We're not making a habit of this," he says as he crosses the room and climbs into the bed, pressing against the far wall to give the crane room. The crane shakes its head, feathers rustling. It lets out a trill that Erik hasn't heard before, the sound oddly musical compared to its cries and clacks. Erik shakes his head, smile tugging at his lip. He settles against his pillow, opening his book to the first chapter, skipping the preface. He can sense the crane watching him, but Erik pushes aside the rising flush he feels creeping into his cheeks. He won't let a crane alter his routine, and Erik is used to reading aloud, an unpracticed language a lost language. Still, he clears his throat, well aware of his audience.

"I am by birth a Genevese; and my family is one of the most distinguished of that republic. My ancestors had been for many years counsellors and syndics; and my father had filled several public situations with honour and reputation. He was respected by all who knew him for his integrity and indefatigable attention to public business. He passed his younger days perpetually occupied by the affairs of his country; a variety of circumstances had prevented his marrying early, nor was it until the decline of life that he became a husband and the father of a family."

He can tell the crane is listening, nervousness twisting his stomach at the thought. The crane's scrutiny is unnerving, but Erik is not about to let a bird scare him off. He continues to read, his words creeping into the once hollow spaces of his cabin, filling the hours between night and the elusive call of sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

He wakes to the soft light of shuttered dawn, something tickling the back of his hand. His mind tries to assimilate the data, incorporate it into his dream, but already Erik is coming awake, eyes blinking against the too pale light. He gaze comes to rest on the crane.

It has shifted in the night, or maybe that was Erik, the back of Erik's hand resting against the crane's good wing, the soft plume of its feathers warm against his knuckles. The crane is still asleep; head held aloft, beak tucked into its neck. Erik breathes steadily in and out; tries to calm to irrational beating of his heart.

His copy of _Frankenstein_ sits at his side, having fallen there sometime last night, shortly before Erik succumbed to slumber. It was a long time coming, and it is entirely too early if the light spilling in through the shutters is any indication. Erik slowly withdraws his hand and then turns onto his side to watch the rising and falling of the crane's chest. He did this last night, too, the crane having fallen asleep before him--something that still strikes Erik as both strange and profoundly humbling.

He continues to stare until it is impossible to ignore the growing pressure on his bladder, Erik chastising himself then for having indulged so long. He extracts himself from the covers and slips from the bed, careful not to disturb his companion. The floor boards are cold beneath his feet, Erik stepping lightly in a bid to keep them from creaking. He pads to the woodstove, takes the time to get a fire started, and then retreats to the bathroom.

The crane does not wake. Erik puts on yesterday's clothes and then heads out to start the generator and the pump, wincing at their combined noise. They break the stillness of pre-dawn, Erik coming inside the find the crane awake and in the process of climbing off the bed. It jumps to the floor and ambles over to Erik, full of intent and purpose. Erik takes a step back when the crane enters his space; freezing a second later and allowing the crane to peck at his hand. In lieu of the pain Erik was expecting, there is only a faint tickling. Comprehension dawns.

"Is this how you're going to ask for food now?" he asks. The crane withdraws, but Erik takes the hint; heads into the kitchen to make up a plate. The crane gives a cry, climbs onto the trunk and waits patiently for its meal.

Erik doesn't dally this morning, two full nights and half a day of sleeping having left him with excess energy. The crane seems equally affected. After breakfast, it follows Erik around, clacking excitedly, emitting the occasional trill whenever it seems to think Erik isn't paying close enough attention. It stands inside the door to the bathroom while Erik shaves; waits until Erik's done to come in and do its business. Later, when Erik reclaims the bathroom, wanting to change, it gives a distressed cry, as though sorely put out by being locked out of the room. Erik finds himself smiling.

It's not until he's standing at the front door, dressed in coat and boots, Erik in the process of winding his scarf around his neck that he realizes the crane expects to come with him. It's standing beside the trunk, looking more than a little eager, damaged wing still held close, but its good wing keeps opening, fluttering excitedly as though it means to fly. Twice it hops from foot to foot.

Erik's good mood--a rare thing that has lasted all morning--vanishes. He scowls.

"You can't come with me," he tells the crane. The crane looks nonplussed--not something Erik ever expected to see on a ane. He takes pity on the thing. "I have to go into town, to buy you food. You'll be safer here."

The crane doesn't seem appeased. Erik tries to figure out exactly when he went from tolerating the bird to liking the bird to actually caring about the bird. The crane has only been with him two days now.

"I won't be gone long," he tries, but the crane continues to stare; head cocked again, as though listening intently to Erik's every word and finding fault with them. Erik suspects he ought to find that more alarming than he does. Instead he finds it oddly comforting.

"I'll be back in a few hours," he promises, not giving the crane another chance to protest. He slips outside, taking care to bolt the door behind him. The crane gives a final cry and then falls silent, Erik hesitating before stepping off the porch.

He's still uneasy about leaving the crane, but he's running low on stockfish and the day is warm and sunny--a perfect day to head out onto the water, Erik thinks with just a trace of irony--an ideal day to head into town. He won't get many of these now that the winter's here: best to stock up before he's snowed in.

He keeps his eyes peeled for anything out of the ordinary, the memory of that single track still fresh in his mind. He even pauses at the place where he found it, but there is nothing to indicate he isn't alone in the world. It doesn't make it any easier to shed his unease.

On the road, a gull flies overhead, casting a dark shadow across the snow. Erik almost turns around. Instead he watches it fly towards the town; wonders then if any of the local boats intend to go out. The water has no doubt grown tranquil now that the storm has passed. It's almost a shame the fish are still gone. It will be months before they return.

The walk into town is long, but familiar, Erik intimately acquainted with the road's landmarks. He's lost count of how many times he's walked this path; how many times he's rounded this bend and crested this hill, the town springing into existence beneath him. Brightly coloured houses are highlighted by the sun, a stark difference from Erik's last visit. He comes to the path that meanders along the water, Erik hesitating briefly before taking it. He has no idea why he's decided to try this route, especially when there are still obvious signs of flooding--not to mention the crane is safely ensconced in his cabin.

The flooding isn't as bad as it was, though, the water having mostly receded. Erik still has to pick his way carefully, wandering up the bank and away from the rocky shore when the path becomes impassable. The pebble beach is still submerged, Erik staring across it to the docks where all but a handful of boats are secured. There are a few men about, but mostly the place is a ghost-town.

Erik navigates the shoreline until he reaches the docks, the wood wet and slippery beneath his feet. He heads to the end, where Azazel's boat is moored. Azazel's not around; the boat bereft of life and character. Erik reaches out; runs his senses across her, feeling where she's damaged from the storm. He misses her, he realizes, though it's only been a few days. Erik lets go of his hold on the ship and turns back towards the town.

It's drier the further into town he gets, though there are a few wet spots here and there, the ground still soggy and damp despite the dusting of snow. The puddle that sat outside of Raven's store has been reduced to a mere nuisance, its surface criss-crossed by a latticework of ice. Erik steps neatly over it.

Raven glances up sharply when he steps inside her store, the bells above his head ringing obnoxiously.

"Erik," she says, smile stretching across her face. Erik nods, but does not return her smile. Raven narrows her gaze.

"I need some supplies," he says, though Raven's skepticism is obvious. Erik presses on. "Frozen fish and bread, and..." he pauses. Raven cocks an eyebrow. Erik feels heat creep into his cheeks. "Do you have any seed?"

"Seed?" she asks, catching Erik's hesitation right away.

"Yes, seed. Bird seed, or something with seeds in it."

Raven's skepticism turns to incredulity, something of a smirk tugging at her lips. Erik shakes his head.

"Never mind, just the fish and bread."

"I have muesli. I think it has seeds in it, as well as oats and possibly some dried berries."

Raven's already moving out from behind the counter. She beckons with a flick of her fingers, crossing to the back of the store, expecting Erik to follow. He does. She leads him past the hardware, bins of nuts and bolts making Erik's power sing. When she reaches the back of the store, she stops, scanning the back shelf where she keeps her dried goods. The shelf will grow barren before her next shipment comes in.

She finds what she was looking for, reaching up on tiptoes to pull down a box. She hands it over, bright yellow on red, the package printed in German. Erik recoils, sudden dread seizing in his chest as he stares at Raven's outstretched hand.

She shakes the box.

Erik takes a step back.

"Will this not work?" she asks. 

Erik's tempted to say no; to tell her he doesn't need the muesli, but the picture on the front suggests it is exactly what he needs. Erik releases a steady breath and then steps forward. He plucks the package from her hand.

His German is rusty these days, not a language he spoke often during his childhood, but one he was forced to speak in the camps--at least, inside the hearing of any of the guards, which was often. He turns the package over, blinks at the words, gaze narrowing as he tries to recall his nouns. Slowly the ingredient list becomes clear. There are seeds in it, along with oats and red currant. Erik glances up and offers Raven a nod. She's still frowning, brow furrowed as though she's trying to reason what he could possibly want with muesli. Erik doesn't elaborate.

"I'll grab you some bread from the back. The fish is in the freezer," she eventually says, sensing his reticence. Erik waits for her to leave.

He finds the fish and then picks up a few other sundries, piling them on the counter even as he mentally tallies how much it will cost him. He's fairly self-sufficient, doesn't require much to live, but the crane's arrival has him rethinking some of his supplies. He buys a couple of newspapers so that he'll have the paper for his bathroom floor, along with some more crisp bread--the crane seemed to like it--and frozen fish that he'll have to keep outside, locked away from prowling scavengers. He buys a few tins of corn, something he has no real interest in eating, but if the crane likes turnip, it might also like corn and Raven has plenty. By the time Raven returns, loaf of coarse bread in hand, her counter is full. She arches an eyebrow.

Erik keeps his expression blank.

"I haven't had much luck with my traps this year," he says, not a lie, though he doesn't mention this is the first year he's tried trapping. Raven nods, something close to sympathy settling across her features.

"It's an off year for everyone. I've heard the bigger trawlers down south are having a bad year, too. They're already off the water." She shrugs. "It happens sometimes."

Erik nods. "This should last me."

It is clear Raven wants to chat, falling immediately into gossip as she rings up Erik's purchase. She continues talking as she tucks his things into a brown paper bag, Erik remaining silent, tension continuing to coil between his shoulder blades, something ugly settling in his stomach while he waits with barely concealed impatience.

It is not that he begrudges Raven her loneliness--he understands it all too well--only that she sees him as a way to end it. He doesn't want that; not for her and not for him. He wants only to be left alone, away from the prying eyes of civilization, where no one will look too hard at the numbers on his skin, and no one will question why metal obeys his every command.

"You know, I'm fairly certain there is a law against being so tense during the off season," she says, clearly teasing him, but Erik's not in the mood for it. He offers a curt shrug.

"I just have a lot to do," he tells her.

She takes the hint for what it is, gives him his total and hands across the bag. Erik pays her with exact change, offering thanks as he tucks the bag under his arm. He heads back out into the cold.

The sun is already creeping across the horizon, the sky an unending shade of blue. He feels like he's accomplished nothing, despite the bag under his arm. He always gets a little stir crazy during the off seasons; thinks often of leaving this place, starting anew somewhere without cyclical seasons. It wouldn't be the first time he's left a place with relatively little notice, but he has something keeping him here at present, the crane wholly dependent on him until its wing heals.

The town vanishes behind him, Erik stepping out from the protective embrace of the last of the houses, into the vast nothingness of the wilderness. It stretches out before him and all around; rock and snow and tree as far as the eye can see. It is only then, civilization safely behind him, that Erik begins to feel his tension drain. He understands the necessity of such places, but he is a man of solitude, too many people pressed together making him claustrophobic and apprehensive.

He follows the road further into the wilderness, eventually reconnecting with his footprints; following their line back towards his cabin. His bag of groceries is heavy in his arm, Erik transferring them from arm to arm every time one goes numb. When he reaches the point where his path deviates from the road, a smile spreads across his face, eager anticipation stirring in his breast. He can't remember the last time he was happy to be home.

He climbs the slight incline up to the path, steps light, his earlier good mood returning. It lasts just until he's rounded a cluster of rocks, Erik freezing in the middle of the trail; staring down at the hard-packed snow to where his footprints lead away from the cabin, another's towards.

There are only two, but they are distinct and Erik would recognize them anywhere.

His cabin is still a ways off, but there is nothing else on this hillside, Erik clutching his groceries to his chest as he takes off sprinting. The exertion hurts his ribs, but he doesn't care, every ounce of energy focused on putting one foot before the other; on getting him home. He scans the ground as he runs, but he finds no other tracks, Erik simultaneously seeking out with his powers, feeling the surrounding area for any trace of metal. There is nothing.

Ahead, his cabin comes into view, undisturbed. Erik is winded, panting, sweat beaded against his brow when he reaches the front door. He scrambles with bag and keys to get it unlocked. It takes longer than he would like.

The door eventually tumbles open, Erik practically falling inside, bag spilling into the floor, a can of corn rolling into the kitchen. Erik reaches out for every piece of metal in the place, his watch on the nightstand rising into the air, the cutlery in his drawers rattling violently. He scans the room.

He finds the crane on the bed, wide awake and staring at Erik, something close to alarm flashing in its eyes. Erik releases a breath, only then realizing he was holding it. The watch crashes back to the nightstand, his cutlery falling silent. His knees sag with relief, though the threat has not passed. He steps forward. The crane stands and gives a cry.

"Has anyone been inside?" he asks, though nothing seems disturbed and the doors and shutters are still locked tight--never mind that the crane is incapable of answering.

The crane clacks at him and then climbs from the bed. Erik ignores it in favour of doing a search of the house.

When he finds nothing he returns to the main room, door still wide open, Erik berating himself for his haste. He moves towards it; feels then the sudden pull of something metal in the distance, moving away. Immediately Erik's rifle comes to his hand.

The crane gives another cry; more desperate this time.

"Stay here," Erik says, already stepping towards the open door, but before he can close the distance, the crane is before him, clacking noisily and pecking at his hands. Erik growls.

"I'm not feeding you. Now get back inside," he says. He doesn't want to hurt the crane, but there is someone out there--of that Erik is sure--and he fully intends to find them.

The crane gives another cry.

Erik clenches his jaw, shaking his head as he reaches out with the butt of his rifle to knock the crane aside. It is a gentle tap, little more than a nudge, but the crane still chirps angrily at him. It pecks at the rifle, too. Erik slips past it, coming to stand on the front porch. He reaches out with his powers, finds the metal of the doorknob and pulls. The crane gives another frustrated cry, but the sound is cut short by the shutting of the door.

A flick of his finger bolts the lock.

Erik scans ahead.

He can no longer feel the hint of metal that drew him before, but he knows its general location, Erik taking off, cutting across snow and rock, darting around trees as he heads for the glen where he first found the crane. He keeps his rifle close to his side, scanning his path with both eyes and powers.

The sun is a golden ball high in the sky now, the hour reaching midday. It provides plenty of light, the trees sparse in this area. There is literally nowhere for anyone to hide, and yet Erik finds nothing. The earlier glimpse of metal has vanished, Erik half convinced he imagined it. He gets to the place where he found the crane, snow still bloodied, his own prints still visible in the snow. There is nothing else.

"Damn it," Erik says, just under his breath. He shouts, "Where are you?" but the only response is his echo.

He forces himself then to take slow, steady breaths, calming his anger and his fear. Fear makes him weak; anger irrational. He's seen men who caved to their fear and anger; watched as the Nazis put bullets in their backs. Anger and fear don't protect corpses. Erik struggles for calm.

He doesn't entirely find it--has never been able to--but he calms enough that he's able to push aside the need to start shooting randomly into the tree line. He reaches out again with his powers, finding no metal, but it gives him a starting point. He turns towards his cabin, begins his first circuit. He'll search the entire hillside if he has to.

He comes damn close to doing exactly that, but the only sign of life he finds is a tiny boat off the water, far from the harbour and farther still from his cabin. The day has crept into afternoon, Erik watching the boat navigate the fjord before deciding he probably isn't going to find anything.

He has to cross the road to get back to his property, but instead of cutting cross-country--the way he came--he follows the road up to his path, climbs the same incline and rounds the same outcrop of rocks. The footprints are still there, Erik somewhat relieved when he finds them. He almost convinced himself he imagined them. He begins a slow search of the area, but he finds no other tracks; at least, none belonging to a man, the area rich in animal tracks.

He stumbles across a bird's tracks, gull from the look of them, the crane coming then to the forefront of his thoughts. His stomach churns with nausea, Erik's pace picking up, not quite the sprint from before, but certainly a clipped walk. He finds the cabin as he left it.

He pauses outside the door this time, listening intently, but there is no sound from within. He doesn't have his keys--they fell along with the bag on his first trip into the cottage--so Erik waves aside the lock, even though he hates using his powers where someone might see. He slowly opens the door and steps inside.

He is ambushed by the crane.

It pecks again at his rifle, alternating between clacks and cries, as distressed as Erik's ever seen it. Too late he realizes it's probably seen a rifle; probably knows exactly what it is.

"Calm down," he tells it, trying to avoid its beak as he pushes it aside, with limited success, the crane catching his hand, nipping the delicate skin between his thumb and his index finger. Cursing, he gets himself into the cabin so that he can shut the door behind him.

The crane steps back and gives another cry. Erik very carefully props the rifle beside the front door and then sticks the bite into his mouth, sucking against the stinging. The crane's gaze follows the rifle. Erik tells himself he is imagining the crane's scowl. He pulls his hand from his mouth and shakes it, surprised when the slight cut doesn't immediately start bleeding.

"I didn't find anything, but there is someone out there; probably the same someone who shot you." He gestures broadly with his hands, irritation creeping into his voice. "I'm trying to protect you."

It's a stupid thing to say and he knows it as soon as he's said it, because it's not like whoever is out there is specifically looking for the crane. The arrow was probably an attempt at a meal and nothing more. The crane seems to agree, because it gives another angry cry. Erik's shoulders droop, defeated.

He's tired and sore--his ribs still aching--frustrated by his earlier failure and the crane's reaction. He watches the crane cross the bed, climbing awkwardly to perch in the middle. In that moment it looks as small and as vulnerable as it did that first night, blood soaked wing trembling in Erik's hands.

The last of Erik's irritation drains, guilt slipping in to take its place. He leaves the crane where it is and begins cleaning up spilled groceries, Erik tiptoeing around the heavy silence of the room. It occurs to him then, when he's standing inside the kitchen, putting away the rest of his groceries, that he's just had an argument with a bird. He barks a laugh as the ridiculousness of that hits him, a rustling from the bed telling him he's drawn the crane's attention. Erik glances over his shoulder and offers the bird a grin.

"You bit me, you know," he says, though it is only a tiny cut and doesn't really bother him anymore.

The crane lifts its head, gaze piercing. It strikes Erik again that he's now trying to make up with a crane, which is almost as ridiculous as arguing with one. He laughs again.

"I just had a fight with a bird, and lost," he says, more to himself than the bird, but in response the crane offers a clack. For reasons Erik can't explain, he finds the sound oddly comforting.


	10. Chapter 10

It's well into late afternoon before the crane relents and lets Erik into its space. Erik's not sure if that means he's been forgiven, or if the crane's wing is simply bothering it and it recognizes the first-aid kit in Erik's hand as something beneficial.

Erik will take what he can get, the crane's ire hurting more than he would like to admit. There is still a good deal of tension in the room, Erik's rifle seeming blatantly noticeable, despite sitting inconspicuously beside the door. 

"I'm guessing you don't like guns," Erik says, standing at the side of the bed.

The crane lifts its head; cocking it to the side in that peculiar way it has. Erik still half expects it to lash out; chase Erik away. When it doesn't, he sets the first-aid kit down on the nightstand, next to the bowl of clean water he already retrieved.

"Will you at least let me redress that?" he asks, gesturing to the crane's wing. This time the crane clacks, sounding oddly agreeable.

Erik nods, exhaling steadily before moving slowly onto the bed, coming to sit at the crane's side. He reaches delicately for the wing, half expecting the crane to pull away; to nip at Erik again, the space between his thumb and finger still stinging. Instead it goes entirely docile, allowing Erik to extend its wing and unwind its dressing. Something flutters in Erik's chest at the blatant display of trust, especially after everything that has happened. He sets the stained gauze aside and reaches for the batting.

The wound, when he uncovers it, is much improved over yesterday morning, the surface no longer bleeding, a dried scab having formed over the cut. Erik reaches for the cloth inside the bowl; rings it out and then brings it to the cranes' wing. He washes carefully around the scab, careful not to dislodge it. The crane's feathers are soft beneath the pads of his fingers; like strands of silk. Erik fights the urge to run his fingers through them; feel the warmth of the crane's down.

He can barely remember the last time he touched something living; felt the warmth of another body. It eases the last of his tension, Erik acutely aware of the crane's steady breathing; of the fluttering of its heart.

He sets aside the cloth and reaches for new batting, covering the wound on both sides before wrapping the wing in new gauze, moving slowly in part not to startle the bird; in part because he wants an excuse to linger. He still has no idea if what he's doing is helping or hindering, but the crane seems to appreciate it, whatever it is. When Erik finishes tying off the gauze, pulling his hands free, it gives an experimental stretch of the wing and then draws it tight to its body.

"Okay?" Erik asks, the crane ruffling its feathers. Erik takes that as affirmation.

He busies himself then tidying the mess, the crane nestling further onto the bed, seeming content now that its wing has been redressed. It's still watching Erik carefully, like it hasn't quiet forgiven the gun. Erik tries not to look as hurt as he feels--tries not to wonder when a crane's opinion became so important.

Unbidden, the desperate urge to make amends constricts in his chest. 

It strikes him then that the crane is the first true companion he's had since before the camps. He has no idea what to do with that. Instead he crosses to the door, slipping into boots and coat, the crane watching him intently now. Erik nods over his shoulder.

"Do you want to go outside?" He remembers this morning; remembers how badly the crane wanted to follow him outside. It probably won't make amends, but it is a start.

To his surprise, the crane lifts its head, gives a cry, and the struggles to stand. It hops off the bed, wobbling slightly when it hits the ground, its good wing extended for balance. It crosses to Erik's side. Erik arches an eyebrow.

"Did you actually understand that? Or do you just know the word _outside_?"

He's seen dogs respond to that word, if they've heard it enough. He imagines it's probably the same for all animals, which tallies a point in favour of Erik having stolen someone's pet. He wonders if he ought to put up flyers, but finds himself loath to do so--though he tells himself that is only because a responsible pet-owner wouldn't allow their crane to get itself shot. It has nothing to do with wanting to keep the crane for himself.

The crane doesn't answer--not that Erik was expecting it to--Erik quickly securing a scarf around his neck. The crane is waiting impatiently when he's done, looking more than a little eager about the prospect of heading outside. It clacks at him excitedly when he approaches the door.

Outside, the light is soft, the sun low on the horizon, inching its way towards twilight. Erik steps out onto the porch, the crane on his heels. Erik pauses then to breathe deep the fresh air; imagines the crane doing the same at his side. It makes him laugh again, his earlier worry vanishing, the crane a comforting presence at his side.

He steps down onto the snow. The crane hops down beside him.

He starts with a loop of the cabin, the crane following at his side, clacking excitedly, the noise carrying. Erik thinks briefly of shushing it, but he can't bear to do anything that might temper its enthusiasm. He still feels guilty for this morning, and for the rifle, never mind that he hasn't considered what it must have been like for the crane, trapped inside Erik's cabin when it was used to its freedom.

It seems immensely pleased to be outside now, its eyes bright as it follows Erik around the house, and then past the shed and towards Erik's old trap line.

He very intentionally avoids the clearing where he found it, the blood-soaked snow undoubtedly still there. Instead he winds them through the woods, passing the spot where his first trap used to sit, new tracks--hare--darting exactly through the pass that used to hold the snare. Erik shakes his head and keeps walking.

He detours them further down, heading out so that they climb one of the cliffs that look out across the fjord. They're at least a mile up from the town; well away from prying eyes, Erik relaxed enough now to slow his pace, coming to a stop just before the land gives way to abyss, the scent of salt reaching his nose. It is a good vantage point to see the whole of the island, the town visible in tiny dots of red and yellow. The shoreline extends east and west, the looming black cliffs across the way marking a path to the ocean.

Erik has always enjoyed this view. It is strange to share it with someone, the crane having stopped at his side. He glances down at it; finds it staring across at the black cliffs, no doubt knowing them far more intimately than Erik ever will.

"I would imagine you miss flying," Erik says, hesitating then before sitting on an outcrop of rocks, looking out over the winter-dark water. The crane shifts nearer. It gives a piercing cry.

Erik cringes, but doesn't shy away.

"I'd probably miss it too." He glances south then. "How far do you go?" he asks, even knowing he won't get an answer. He knows next to nothing about cranes and their migratory paths--for all he knows it flies to the heart of Africa and then back again every single year. He wonders if it has a mate waiting for it; if they will wait for it.

The thought is vaguely unsettling, though Erik can't say why. He glances back out over the water, watching the sun inch towards the towering cliffs down-fjord. The crane burrows close to his side, Erik growing impossibly still, terrified of disturbing it. The cold leaches through his clothes, an involuntary shiver eventually disturbing the crane, though it only ruffles its feathers, glances over and gives a sharp cry. Erik smiles.

"We should get back," he says, standing then, stamping warmth into his feet. The crane immediately follows his lead.

He takes a final glance out over the water, the fjord beautiful when highlighted by the sinking sun. The crane waits patiently, staring at Erik instead of the water; falling into step at Erik's side when he turns back towards the cabin.

They arrive in time for supper.

The crane seems lighter for their walk. Erik feels light, too, despite the looming threat of someone out there. He can't quite bring himself to forget the footprints in the snow, or the battered dinghy floating in the mist, but he can push them both aside for a time, concentrating instead on getting inside where it's warm.

Except as soon as the door is open his plans for a fire and cooked meal are forgotten, Erik's gaze coming to rest on a trail of water trickling across his floor.

"Son of a..." he curses, stepping fully inside, shifting automatically to accommodate the crane. It pauses at his side, gives a cry and then brushes past Erik, circling around to hop up onto the trunk, eyeing the trickle of water warily.

The water is running from somewhere in the bathroom, following the slope of the floor towards the bed, where it pools beneath Erik's nightstand, seeping into floorboards and staining the wood of the far wall. Erik curses again, hearing then the knocking of the pump; a sure sign of a leak. He leaves his boots on as he crosses the floor, following the trail of water back to its source: a burst pipe, lying against the bathroom floor and meant to channel water from the bathroom to the kitchen. Erik sinks to his knees, bringing his thumb to the side of the pipe to trace the split copper. He frowns.

The cabin is cold, but not cold enough to have done this, the wear undoubtedly old, the pipe waiting for an inopportune moment to burst. It's not something that tends to happen when the cabin is warm and the pump is running, but it has happened. There's little that can be done without shutting down the pump, so Erik grabs a towel from the back of the bathroom door and sets it across the pipe, hoping to absorb most of the escaping water. He stands then and retreats to the main room, the crane still sitting on the trunk, watching Erik curiously.

"Stay here," Erik says, the crane clacking, though whether its agreement or reprimand, Erik can't tell. He leaves it where it's sitting and heads back outside.

Night is quickly descending, and repairing the pipe will probably take the rest of it. Erik curses again and moves to the pump house, where he silences its knocking with a flip of a switch.

He leaves the generator running and crosses to his work shed, where, inside, scattered amongst the clutter, he keeps spare bits of pipe, along with the necessary equipment and supplies to fix a leak. When he finally makes it back inside, the crane has climbed down from the trunk and is standing next to the pipe, watching water drip from the now saturated towel.

"You're probably hungry and this might take a while," Erik says, setting his supplies on the table. Without the pump running the leak can wait, though he still takes the time to open the kitchen and bathroom taps; let the water drain. The crane gives another of its clacks.

It watches Erik intently as Erik moves to the stove, adds a log to the fire, the want for warmth still pressing. It tracks Erik into the kitchen then, gaze scrutinizing as it watches Erik prepare its supper. When Erik turns back to it, it gives a sharp cry, moving then to the trunk to take its customary place under the window.

"That was a yes to being hungry," Erik says, chuckling. He brings the plate over, filled with stockfish, corn and muesli. The crane attacks the plate with gusto.

He doesn't linger then, preparing his own meal--scant and easy to consume standing over the kitchen counter. When he's done, he starts in on the repairs.

He's gotten good at repairing leaks; something the cabin needs frequently. He's tried in the past to do this with his powers, but his powers don't seem to work on copper, so he's stuck using a pipe cutter to cut out the split pieces. He fluxes the ends of the old before attaching connectors, Erik cutting a replacement piece from a longer tube and then fitting it in the middle. By the time he's done, the fire is starting to die, cold creeping in through the floorboards.

The crane is still watching him, Erik pausing then to stand and move the stove, adding more wood before the last of the embers can go out. He returns to the pipe; pulls out a coil of solder and kerosene blowtorch.

"You might want to stay where you are," he says to the crane, reaching for his sparker. The crane lifts its head, though it makes no move to leave the trunk. Erik starts the kerosene flowing and then sparks a tiny blue flame, letting it grow up before placing it against the first connector.

It is easy enough to heat the pipes and then melt the solder against them, sealing the space between the connector and the old and new pieces of copper. When Erik is certain he's created an airtight seal he sets the solder aside, stopping the flow of kerosene, the flame extinguishing. He'll let the new seal sit until morning before turning the water back on. Only then will he know if he's done the job right.

Erik stands then, knees stiff from where he's been crouching. He's not as young as he used to be, and years of rough living have caused him to age prematurely. He feels it now, in the creaking of his joints, Erik pausing to rub against the backs of his kneecaps; hoping heat from his hands will chase out the ache. It helps, a little.

He takes his time tidying his mess then, Erik not entirely certain what to do with himself now that he's solved this problem. The crane is still watching him, eyes tracking Erik as he carries the solder and blowtorch back to the table. The scent of solder hangs heavy in the air.

"When I was a kid," Erik finds himself saying, not entirely certain where the impulse comes from, "my father used to have to fix our lead pipes by rubbing molten lead around the crack until it sealed. He had scars all over his hands from it, even with the protective gear."

He remembers the stink of it; the way, later, in the camps, the scent of burning flesh would trigger the memory. His father never complained. He worked so diligently to ensure his family was provided for, that his children had running water and working heat and food on the table. How much, Erik wonders, had it hurt his pride when all of that was stripped from him.

He doesn't say anything else, leaving his plumbing supplies beside the door while he wanders around the cabin, shutting it up for the night. He takes the rifle with him outside when he goes, along with the kerosene blowtorch, ignoring the way the crane stiffens when he sees the gun. The dark of night is fast descending, the sun having long since slipped beyond the horizon. Erik stands on his porch; marvels then at everything that has happened, how quickly his life has changed.

He returns his supplies to the work shed and then moves around back to the generator, flipping its switching and casting the cabin into darkness. The crane, when he heads back inside, is now sitting in the middle of the bed, lit now by the hurricane lamp. It's an exact mirror of their first night, Erik coming to a stop inside the door, staring at the crane while he processes what he's done. He has no idea how he came to have a bird for a companion.

Erik sets his rifle back down beside the door and tells himself the crane is not glaring at it.

The crane's expression clears considerably once the rifle is put away, its expression turning curious. When Erik makes no move towards it, it glances away; goes back to preening its feathers. It seems such an ordinary thing, the domesticity of it striking something in Erik's chest. It occurs to him then that he is undeserving of this crane; a creature of infinite grace and wisdom that ought to be sailing the heavens, not sitting broken in the centre of Erik's bed.

He has no idea what else to do with himself now that the cabin is shut down, so he retrieves his copy of _Frankenstein_ from the bookshelf and then hovers at the side of the bed. The crane pauses in its preening to offer Erik a clack.

Erik takes that as permission and slides across the bed to rest with his back against the wall. Any lingering upset over the rifle seems to have disappeared, because the crane shifts closer, setting its head against Erik's hip as Erik starts to read, his words carrying to fill the empty corners of the room.


	11. Chapter 11

[](http://nekosmuse.com/crane/CRANE03.jpg)

He's not entirely sure what disturbs his rest, Erik shifting, strange sense of unease prickling at the edge of his awareness. He listens intently for any sound, but the cabin is silent save for the steady in and out of his breathing; the knocking of his heart. He thinks then it might be the abundance of light--it reflects off the back of his eyelids, fiery red that is far too bright for the hour. He remembers then falling asleep with the hurricane lamp still burning, a stupid thing to do; he's lucky he didn't burn the cabin down.

There is something else, though; a warm, unfamiliar weight at his side that immediately draws his attention. Erik's first instinct is to curl towards it. He opens his eyes, half expecting to find the bed on fire; instead he finds himself staring into a pair of impossibly bright blue eyes. Erik blinks, takes in the soft smile of the man peering at Erik over the covers, his skin bathed in soft light. Erik's brain struggles to catch up with the situation.

It does a second later, panic surging in his chest, rage colouring his vision as he surges forward, catching the man around the throat and throwing him back; pinning him to the mattress. He keeps a tight grip on the man's neck, his other hand coming up to push his shoulder into the bed, Erik using his weight to hold the man in place.

"Who the hell are you?" he demands, seeing then footprints in the snow and the crane's bloodied wing.

He has no idea where the crane is--it's not on the bed and Erik refuses to tear his gaze from this man's face, not wanting to give him the advantage.

Except, the man isn't even struggling; he's lying docile beneath Erik's weight, face red from lack of oxygen, though there is nothing close to panic or malice in his expression. He looks excited, exhilarated even, like he's thrilled by Erik's reaction. Erik tightens his grip.

"You're going to answer my question, or I'm going to kill you," he says, perfectly capable of making good on his threat. The man blinks; opens his mouth and then closes it.

_I'd love to answer your question, Erik, but I'm afraid I'm incapable of speaking at the moment. Would you mind terribly loosening your grip?_

[ ](http://nekosmuse.com/crane/wakingscene.jpg)

The voice inside his head is such a shock that Erik immediately recoils, hand falling away from the man's throat as he scoots back on the bed, eyes growing wide with fear and something he thinks might be wonder. The man brings a hand to his neck, rubbing at the abused flesh, Erik's hand having left finger-shaped red marks behind. The man coughs and then slowly sits. It's only then that Erik realizes the man isn't wearing any clothes.

His gaze flicks up to the man's face, caught again by the blue of his eyes.

"Who are you?" he asks again, trying to sound assured and in control, but he is still entirely too thrown by whatever it is the man did. A smile flickers across the man's face.

"My name is Charles Xavier," he says, smile shifting to a wide grin as he adds, "And I'm like you."

Erik doesn't know what that means. He shakes his head; takes a moment then to glance around the room, but he cannot find the crane anywhere.

"What did you do with my bird?" he demands.

His senses are coming back to him, Erik reaching out then, grabbing a hold of a knife from his kitchen; preparing to sail it across the room and into his hand if the man so much as twitches.

The man's eyes light up. He chuckles. Erik sees red.

He's about to surge forward again, voice inside his head or no voice inside the head. He means to reclaim his hold on the man's throat, choke him until he gives a satisfactory answer. He's halfway across the bed when the man speaks, his words stopping Erik in his tracks.

"I am your bird."

Erik stumbles, falling forward until he is leaning on one hand, confusion no doubt reflected in his open mouth and narrowed gaze. It is then he notices the dressing wrapped loosely around the man's arm, blood staining the thread a dull rusty colour. It rakes at Erik's heart, something catching in the back of his throat. He swallows heavily.

The man--Charles Xavier he called himself--shifts forward, unconcerned by his nakedness. He comes onto his knees, perched in the centre of the bed exactly where the crane was lying last night. Erik can't seem to tear his gaze from the man's arm, the light from the hurricane lamp reflecting gold off his skin, Erik's carefully tied bandage unravelling as he moves.

"Erik," he says again. Erik's gaze darts to the man's face. He looks so entirely thrilled to be sitting naked in Erik's bed. Erik shakes his head.

"I don't..."

 _Of course you don't, but you will_ , the man's voice--Charles Xavier's voice--echoes in his head. Erik flinches.

"How did you do that?" Erik asks, still struggling to understand. He hasn't felt this confused--this helpless--since he was a boy, herded from the ghetto and into the back of a cattle car, not yet understanding the turn his life was destined to take.

"I told you, I'm like you," the man says again, even as the voice inside his head adds, _Charles, please call me Charles_.

There is something so entirely open--something so entirely familiar--about that voice that Erik's first instinct--to flee or to fight--slips away. He doesn't move from his spot on the end of the bed, still coiled tight, ready to do either at a moment's notice, but for now intrigue is winning out over apprehension.

He's still holding on to the kitchen knife, and he doesn't let it go, Erik registering then what this man means by _I'm like you_. He can speak into Erik's mind, just as Erik can manipulate the metal in the room. Some of his tension dissipates. Something akin to relief knocks against the underside of his ribcage.

"I thought I was alone," he says, the first thing that comes to mind. The man smiles, bright and happy--so very happy.

"Oh, Erik, you're not alone. You're not alone."

Erik shakes his head, because that isn't the point and, besides, he's still not entirely certain what they're talking about; what this man is even doing here. He shifts back a little; slips off the end of the bed to stand in the edge if the hurricane lamp's light. Charles Xavier remains on the bed, haloed by it.

"Explain again the part about being my bird." He feels better for having stood, more in control of the situation. A quick glance around his cabin shows that nothing is disturbed. There is nothing to indicate anything is different, save a naked man in his bed and a missing crane. What Charles is saying should be impossible, but then again, speaking inside a man's head should be impossible, too, never mind the things that Erik can do.

Erik ignores the part of him that _wants_ it to be true.

"It's a rather long story, and I'd be more than happy to tell it," Charles says, still smiling at Erik like Erik is the best thing to ever happen to him, "but it's long, so you might want to sit down, or at the very least build us a fire."

Erik starts at that, again taking note of Charles' nakedness. The lamp illuminates his skin, clearly showing the goose flesh that has risen across it. Erik's hand twitches at his side. He tears his gaze away, still half afraid to turn his back on Charles, but in addition to being unclothed, he is also unarmed, so Erik forces himself to walk away.

He crosses to his dresser and roots through it to find a spare pair of trousers and a shirt. When he returns to the bed, Charles is still watching him--and there is something familiar in that gaze, the intensity of his stare an exact duplicate of the crane's. Erik finds himself flushing, even as he hands over the clothes.

Charles accepts them graciously, Erik again turning away, crossing this time to the stove to start them a fire. By the time he is done, Charles is dressed, Erik's shirt entirely too large for Charles' slight frame, Erik's pants hanging around his hips. Erik swallows and then gestures, a bid for Charles to begin.

"Oh, well, in that case, I'll start at the beginning, shall I?" Erik nods, though it is clear Charles means the question as rhetorical. He's already getting himself comfortable, sitting in the middle of Erik's bed like he belongs there. Erik very cautiously claims the chair next to the woodstove. He hasn't relinquished his hold on the knife.

"My name is Charles Xavier, and I have spent the last ten years studying genetics. In particular, I have spent the last ten years studying genetic mutation. You, Erik, are a mutant, as am I. We have developed extraordinary abilities--my ability to read and manipulate minds, and your ability to manipulate metal, though I suspect that may also extend to magnetic fields--through genetic mutation, the process by which humans evolve. We, my friend, are the next stage in human evolution."

Charles speaks as though lecturing to an audience, as if Erik is his pupil, Charles his teacher. It's all very fascinating, the idea so appealing Erik can barely breathe for it--to go from being an outcast to an evolutionary leap is simultaneously relieving and empowering--but it does nothing to explain why Charles was a bird. Erik's confusion must show, because Charles' smile grows apologetic.

"I did tell you it was long, and the background is important."

He waits for Erik's nod before continuing.

"I have spent my whole adult life looking for other mutants, but we are few and far-between, and to date you are only the third I have found."

A question sits on Erik's tongue, but Charles holds up a hand, Erik's breath catching at the sight of long, slender fingers, his question forgotten. He inclines his head; sits more primly in the chair, the heat from the woodstove reminding him of the hour; reminding him that he ought to be sleeping. He's not at all tired.

"The first mutant I found was a man who called himself Hunter, except he saw his mutation as a curse, and so in turn saw my mutation as a curse. When I demonstrated my abilities, he tried to kill me, and would have succeeded had his wife not come to my aid. She would be the second mutant I have met. It was she who turned me into a crane."

For a moment all Erik can do is stare, wanting then to break into hysterical laughter, because he's never in his life heard such a ridiculous story. Charles is absolutely serious, though, his expression still warm and inviting--distracting even--but his gaze has hardened, as though recounting the story is somewhat painful. Erik shakes his head; tries to dispel the rest of his confusion.

"So this woman, the wife, she can turn people into birds?"

He has no idea why that is his sticking point. Charles lets out a huff of laughter.

"I suspect any animal, though I wasn't able to discuss her mutation at length. I would guess it involves animal transmogrification. The effects were obviously temporary, though I was beginning to worry. I'm not sure why she chose a bird, if she even had control of her powers, but it did allow me to escape her husband."

Charles falls silent then, Erik suddenly aware that he's leaning forward intently, elbows resting on his knees, completely absorbed by Charles' story. This isn't like him, Erik leery and dismissive of strangers, and by all accounts this man is a stranger--a stranger who has invaded his home--and yet Erik cannot seem to escape the connection between them. It is as if he's known Charles for years. From his place on the bed, Charles' smile grows shy.

"Technically, it's only been weeks," he says.

Erik's expression falls.

He sits up then, horror draining his face of colour. He opens and closes his mouth twice before he's capable of speaking. "You remember? I mean, being a crane, you were aware..."

He's not sure what reaction he's expecting, but Charles ducking his head and blushing isn't one of them, the sight stealing Erik's breath, even as he fights the heat creeping up his neck. Unbidden the thought of Charles curled against his side comes into Erik's head, as he is now rather than in his crane form, Charles listening intently as Erik reads another passage from _Frankenstein_. That same heat creeping up his neck stains his cheeks red.

Charles clears his throat.

"Well, yes, though it's rather complicated. Certainly I was conscious and aware. I even had some limited use of my telepathy, but a good number of my instincts were bird-like. I don't usually get so excited over fish, for one thing."

It's a ridiculous story, and Erik ought to discount it; he ought to assume Charles is lying, that he's done something with Erik's crane and is, in fact, a threat. He ought to distrust the man completely, but for reasons Erik can't explain, reasons he hopes aren't Charles' doing--and what exactly did the man mean by manipulate minds?--Erik can't bring himself to do that.

He exhales slowly, tries to piece together Charles' story; tries to imagine a world where there are other people like him, people like Charles. He glances again to Charles' arm, covered now by Erik's shirt, but the blood soaked dressing is still vivid in his memory. Transforming back into a man must have aggravated the injury.

"Who shot you? Was that Hunter?"

He thinks again of the footprints in the snow, of the pull of metal just outside his reach; thinks of the dinghy and the murdered man up the fjord. Charles' expression turns grim, confirmation of Erik's suspicions.

"He's here, then? Looking for you?"

Charles nods. "I believe so. I've sensed him a few times, and have managed to distract him each time, but as you can well imagine, being a bird somewhat interfered with my abilities."

Erik thinks back to their first meeting, if he can call it that; he thinks back to the strange sense of kinship he initially felt and wonders if that was Charles' doing. Still nestled in the centre of Erik's bed, Charles' expression falls.

"I assure you, I wasn't manipulating you," he says, even as Erik lifts a hand in apology. Charles' expression clears, but he continues. "I knew the moment I spotted you that you were a mutant. Your mind, oh, Erik, your mind. You are quite possibly the most incredible person I have ever met. I couldn't help but feel drawn to you."

He's leaning forward now, inching slowly into Erik's space until everything else in the room vanishes, Erik caught by the intensity of Charles' gaze. Erik has no idea what to say to Charles' confession. No one has ever called him incredible; certainly no one has ever been drawn to him. Most people tend to run the other way, and yet he understands what Charles is saying, because despite his reticence, Erik cannot help but see Charles as a bright point in an otherwise darkened world--a light he is inexplicably drawn towards.

"I will promise you this; I will not read your mind without your permission, though I cannot help overhearing some of your louder thoughts. But Erik, you and I, we..." is as far as Charles gets before Erik interrupts.

"We?" he asks, feeling a pull of want settle in his stomach. Charles, eyes bright with excitement, enthusiasm practically radiating off of him in waves, nods.

"We're on the cusp of something here, Erik. A new species is being born and we have a chance to be there at the start; to guide it, shape it. Tell me that doesn't appeal to you?"

It's hard not to get swept up in Charles' vision, for however much Erik has just met the man--for however much Erik's still not convinced he can trust the man. A seed of doubt still lingers in his breast, like a black cancer, held back only by the strength of Charles' conviction. Erik nurses it now. How many of them are there? Four, by Charles' count, and extraordinary abilities or no extraordinary abilities, what chance do they stand against anyone wanting to see them destroyed?

People fear that which is different. Erik knows this all too well.

"I think you're missing the part where someone is trying to kill you. Someone, I'll remind you, who's already killed, and someone, I'll remind you, who knows you are here."

Again he sees those footprints; sees a red stain spreading across the snow, hears the shrill cry of an injured crane. For a moment it is hard to reconcile the man sitting before him with the crane whose wing he bandaged.

Charles smile dims just a little. "Sorry, loud thoughts," he says, gesturing at Erik's head. Erik ought to feel embarrassed, but it is a valid concern, so instead he hardens his gaze and meets Charles' eye.

"If that's who's out there, why did you try to stop me?" he asks, remembering then the crane's attack; the nip to his hand.

Charles shakes his head; he scoots forward then, coming to the edge of the bed, the space between them reduced to a mere foot.

"Hunter needs to be brought to justice for what he has done, yes, and I assure you we will see to it, but we need to look at the bigger picture here. What will killing him accomplish?"

 _It will keep you safe_ , Erik doesn't say; though he can tell by the softening of Charles' features that he's heard. He slides off the end of the bed, then, coming to kneel at Erik's feet. Erik tenses at Charles' sudden proximity. He's not used to sharing his space, not anymore, Charles' hands warm against his knees. Erik wants to recoil; instead he finds himself captive, incapable of moving away.

"I haven't thanked you yet, but I am grateful," Charles says, eyes reflecting the light, genuine smile pulling at his mouth. "It was so awful being a bird, and then I found you, and you fed me fish." Erik watches, transfixed, as Charles' smile grows wide. "And then you found me in the snow and brought me home and took care of me."

There is a long moment where Erik can't properly breathe, Charles staring at him like Erik is some kind of miracle, protest stirring in Erik's breast because, _No, no, don't look at me like that. I'm not a good man. I'm not worthy of that look_ , but then Charles' lips part, teeth showing as his smile shifts into a grin.

"I am very honoured to finally meet you, my friend," he says, pulling away then, as though aware of Erik's discomfort; of Erik's need for space. He returns to the bed and sits on its end.

Erik stares for several long minutes before blinking, eyes damp. He releases a shaking breath, leans back and runs a hand through his hair, painfully aware then of just how exhausted he feels; just how little sleep he's gotten.

"It is late, or rather early, I suppose," Charles says, catching that thought, too. "I did warn you it was long, and we haven't even begun. It can wait until morning if you'd like. I tend to get a little excited, especially now that I can actually talk to you. You have no idea how many times I tried communicating with you telepathically. Apparently that was beyond my abilities."

There's something soft and almost hesitant in the way Charles says it, as though he's very much aware of the effect he's having on Erik. Erik lets Charles' words wash over him; lets them warm him in ways nothing has in a very long time. He blinks back the moisture in his eyes and gestures to Charles' arm.

"You should probably take a look at that," he says, Charles following his gaze, seeming somewhat surprised, like he's forgotten about his arm until now.

"Yes, I suppose I ought to," he says, still staring at his sleeve. He glances back to Erik. "Would you mind?"

Erik feels something tighten in the centre of his chest that he thinks might be the desire for hysterical laughter. It is a welcome distraction from their earlier conversation, Erik nodding, even as he stands; glad to be doing something constructive. He moves to the dresser to retrieve the first aid kit, the pump still off, so he collects the bottle of antiseptic still sitting next to the kitchen sink and carries both to the bed.

Charles is sitting with his legs over the side now, arm angled into the hurricane lamp's light. It is running low on fuel, the light not as bright as it usually is, though there is enough to see by. Erik pauses just outside its circle and stares. Charles has pulled Erik's shirt off and set it aside, leaving him bare-chested, the dressing still loose on his arm. Erik swallows, telling himself this is no different from dressing a crane's wing, though the heat creeping into his cheeks tells him otherwise. Erik forcibly pushes the thought aside, mortified by the thought of Charles overhearing it.

He steps towards the bed, Charles glancing up then, looking in that moment so much like the crane that Erik's breath catches. Charles offers him a soft smile, dispelling the image. Erik swallows and comes to sit at his side.

He places the kit and the antiseptic between him and Charles, Charles extending his arm, Erik hesitating only briefly before reaching for it, Charles' skin warm and soft; silken like the crane's feathers. He tries to be as efficient as possible, clinical and detached as he unwinds the dressing.

An hour ago he was trying to strangle this man; now he's seeing to his wounds. Erik's half tempted to give in to that impulse for hysterical laughter.

The wound, when it's uncovered, isn't as bad as Erik was expecting. The arrow has grazed the bottom half of Charles' deltoid. The cut has come open and is bleeding slightly, both the cotton batting and the gauze stained red with blood. Erik retrieves a clean piece of batting; wets it with the antiseptic and brings it to Charles' arm.

"This will sting," he says, very much aware of the heavy weight of Charles' gaze. Man or bird, the intensity of Charles' stare is exactly the same.

Erik cleans the wound.

Charles inhales sharply, but otherwise says nothing, not flinching, not pulling away, even when Erik runs the antiseptic-soaked batting over the wound. He works as quickly as he can, tossing the bloodied batting to the bed when he's finished and then reaching for clean batting and gauze to dress the wound. He thinks briefly of stitching it--it would heal faster--but he doesn't have the means for sterilizing needle and thread tonight and the wound isn't quite that bad. It'll heal well enough so long as it's kept cleaned and dressed.

"How does it work?" he asks as he presses batting against the cut. He glances up briefly to find Charles watching him, entirely too close, quizzical expression on his face. "Your telepathy," Erik clarifies.

"You want to abandon one long conversation for another?" Charles asks, humour evident in his tone. Erik hesitates briefly and then shakes his head. They can have that conversation tomorrow.

"Tell me about Hunter, then. What can he do?"

He's being particularly methodical in wrapping Charles' arm, not particularly wanting to relinquish contact, though he tells himself it is only to ensure the wound heals properly. He feels Charles shift, half turning so that by the time Erik's done binding Charles' arm, they're sitting almost face to face.

Erik thinks about the still dark of night, the hours between now and dawn, and wonders if Charles will continue to share his bed in this form. He pushes the thought away as soon as it forms, gritting his teeth against a rising flush. Charles is either not listening, or tactfully ignoring the suggestion.

"I'm not entirely certain I understand the full limitations of it, but I think it's related to stealth, or possibly tracking mimicry. He can't change his physical form, but he can move through the wilderness as cunningly as an animal. When I met him, as he walked, he left fox prints in his wake, his prints only changing to those of a man when he saw me. It's actually remarkably clever. I suspect if he wanted to, he could avoid detection indefinitely."

The way Charles says it, it's like he's delighted by the very idea. All Erik can do is swallow back waves of nausea, Charles' explanation clarifying a good number of things and yet, at the same time, having someone like that, out there, still bent on hurting Charles--probably Erik, too, if his issue is with mutation--doesn't bode well for either of them.

"We need to find this guy," Erik is saying before he can stop himself. He's finished the dressing on Charles' arm, and now leans into his space, warmth radiating off Charles' body, seeping into Erik until he feels drunk off it. It's a heady rush being this close to someone, especially someone like him, someone who understands, and yet spikes of fear still creep up his spine, the least of which are related to Hunter.

Charles twists towards him; places a hand against his forearm, fingers curling over Erik's tattoo, obscured though it is by the sleeve of his shirt. Erik cannot bring himself to break Charles' gaze.

"My friend, we will. I promise you, we will, but you must promise me you won't hurt him."

Erik can't promise that, and he suspects Charles knows that, because he vowed to keep Charles safe and that's exactly what he intends to do, regardless of his form. Charles seems to understand, because he nods, squeezes Erik's arm and says, "We can talk about that tomorrow. For now, I don't suppose you happen to have a spare toothbrush lying around?"

It dispels the tension nicely, Erik chuckling. He gives a brief nod and pulls away from Charles, immediately missing his warmth. He stands and crosses to the bathroom. He has several, tucked away inside his medicine cabinet, Erik's supplies endless. He pulls one out and leaves it on the counter, Charles already halfway across the room, still bare-chested.

"I can turn on the water if you like," Erik says, but Charles shakes his head.

"I can manage without." He steps forward then, back into Erik's space, reaching out to catch Erik's hand in his own. "I know I said it before, but thank you, for everything," he says. Erik throat is tight with emotion, words catching there, so he nods; waits for Charles to release him and then returns to the main room.

He eyes the bed for several minutes, but it seems smaller than he remembered, so he retreats to the chair beside the woodstove and settles upon it. When Charles emerges from the bathroom, he lifts an eyebrow. Erik shrugs.

"I can't say I'm very tired." It's not a lie.

Charles smiles, even as he climbs into Erik's bed, settling cross-legged in the middle, the sight quickly becoming a familiar one. "Neither am I," he says, adding, "Do you want that long story now?"

He's perfectly serious, Erik realizes. Unbidden, a smile comes to his face, Erik leaning forward, remembering then the crane's clacking and wondering just how much of the impending story he's already heard. He inclines his head, Charles' eyes lighting up.

The story is far more interesting in English.


	12. Chapter 12

Despite Erik's protests, he does sleep, though sitting in the chair, and only for a little while. His last memory is of Charles, still nestled in the middle of Erik's bed, the soft cadence of his voice as warm and comforting as the still blazing fire.

He startles awake now, struggling momentarily with a blanket he doesn't remember retrieving, coming dangerously close to toppling the chair in the process. The fire has gone out, the stove cool to the touch, daylight streaming in through the slats of his shutters. Erik blinks, settles himself more firmly on the chair and then glances to the bed. He half expects to find a crane nestled amongst his covers. Instead he finds the bed empty.

Panic seizes in his chest, Erik stumbling to his feet, his ribs protesting the abrupt movement. He tries to kick his way free of the blanket, now tangled around his feet, visions of Charles lying bloodied and broken in the snow giving urgency to his struggles.

"I'm here," a voice calls from the kitchen, Erik immediately stilling. He turns, slow and clumsy, as though caught in a dream, and finds Charles standing over the kitchen table. The collar of Erik's undershirt sits low on his neck, exposing his nape. Erik's gaze is irresistibly drawn to it. Something painful lurches in the pit of his stomach when he catches sight of finger-shaped bruises, from where Erik came close to strangling him last night. Charles turns slowly towards him. Erik swallows and glances down.

It is then Erik realizes Charles is holding the arrow that pierced his wing, tip still bloody. Erik clears his throat.

"I meant to get rid of that," he says, which isn't at all what he meant to do, the battered first aid tin inside his steamer trunk coming to mind. If Charles hears, he doesn't comment.

"It's good you kept it." Charles spins the arrow in his hand. Now that Erik's aware of the metal, he can feel its movements; feel the soft caress of Charles' thumb against its point. "It might tell us something about Hunter."

Charles glances up at him then, catching Erik's eye, expression bright and somewhat entrancing. Erik's not entirely certain why he thought this might be awkward--why he woke second guessing everything that happened last night.

"I doubt it'll tell us anything more than you already know," he says, because he's already scrutinized the arrow and it's told him nothing. Charles inclines his head; extends the arrow towards him, broken end of the shaft first, the point resting against his wrist. Erik shakes his head; heads towards his steamer trunk.

There's a bowl of water still sitting on its surface, Erik pausing then, something twisting in his stomach that he thinks might be grief--ridiculous, really, since the crane isn't gone, only transformed. _Capable of leaving_ , Erik thinks, and then firmly pushes the thought from his head. He moves the bowl to the floor and kneels to unlatch the trunk. He can feel the weight of Charles' gaze prickling at the back of his neck, Erik suppressing a shiver.

Beneath several blankets he ought to add to those already on the bed, he finds his tin. He pulls it free and rises smoothly to carry it to the table. He's never shown it to another person; he's not entirely certain he wants Charles to see its contents now.

It is obvious Charles hears the thought, because he sets the arrow down on the table, next to its other half, Erik's screws rolling towards it, still attracted to the metal. Erik stares at them, aware then of Charles slipping away, retreating to the main room to give Erik privacy.

"Wait," he says, turning then; catching Charles' eye. Charles cocks his head, Erik's breath catching at the sight, the gesture an exact duplicate of the crane's. It renders him speechless.

When Erik doesn't say anything, Charles returns to the table and glances at the tin still resting beneath Erik's hands. His gaze flickers to the arrow. "Why did you keep it?" he asks, nudging the arrow with his finger. Erik starts, drawn from his reverie.

"I keep a lot of things." He nods to the screws, glad to change the subject. "I found those in the snow. They're from the front shutter."

"I know. I was there," Charles says, smiling, Erik having forgotten the crane was with him. It still strikes him as strange that Charles remembers his life as a bird, however brief.

"I thought I'd moved them," he says, oddly reluctant to discuss his _mutation_ , as Charles calls it, despite having spent the better part of the night becoming at times intimately acquainted with Charles' telepathy.

"And now you think it might have been Hunter?"

Erik nods. "You said you'd sensed him a few times, that you'd deflected him with your telepathy?" Charles inclines his head.

"That doesn't mean I caught him every time."

"Why not?" Erik asks, a frown settling across his face. From what Charles has told him, he is more than capable of dissuading a solitary man.

Charles huffs a laugh, expression equal parts amusement and incredulity. He cocks his head again--and Erik is never going to not see a crane when he does that--and gives Erik a pointed look. "Well I was a bird, and while sometimes I could focus, a lot of the time I just thought bird things."

Erik has no idea what he means by bird things. He says as much.

"Well, for starters, flying. I'm actually going to miss flying. It's quite lovely. And as I mentioned last night, fish. I thought a lot about fish. And I'm not sure if you know, but it is exceedingly difficult to resist a bird's migratory instincts. I felt at times like something was pulling me south, the force of it so strong it was all I could do to stay here, especially after it started snowing. I even started once, chased by that storm we had. It was agony turning around, but I knew I couldn't leave you."

He catches Erik's eye with that last bit, expression somewhat bashful, though his gaze is steady. Erik finds himself frozen in place, almost hypnotised by Charles' words. He's spent his entire adult life shunning the company of others, and yet here is this man, standing in his kitchen, and Erik wants nothing more than for him to stay, possibly forever. He has to swallow twice before he's capable of speaking.

"So why would he take out the screws?" he asks, because the shutters latch in the middle and it would be far easier to unlatch them than remove two screws--not even enough to remove the shutter completely. There are far easier ways into the house.

Unbidden, the thought of his burst pipe comes to mind, though he can't for the life of him figure out what Hunter might gain from that.

Charles' expression has shifted. He's frowning, lip caught between his teeth in a way that is entirely too distracting. Erik stamps down the thought almost as soon as it's formed.

"Show me," Charles says, already stepping towards the door. A surge of panic quickens Erik's heart.

A foolish reaction, he knows, because it's not as if he can keep Charles locked inside his house and, besides, he doubts Hunter is waiting on the front lawn, ready to carry Charles off as soon as he steps outside. That doesn't stop Erik from reaching out, placing a hand on Charles' shoulder and pulling him back.

It marks the first time he's intentionally touched Charles since last night. Instead of startling, Charles turns into the touch, glancing over his shoulder to arch an eyebrow. There is nothing in his expression save open trust and curiosity. Erik swallows; lets his hand drop back to his side.

"Hang on," he says, already moving across the room to retrieve the slate-coloured wool sweater he wore the other day. He carries back across the room and hands it to Charles, feeling foolish then, like perhaps he ought to explain. "I don't have a second coat." He shrugs.

He doesn't have a second pair of winter boots, either, but he does have his work boots, Erik retrieving those as well.

Charles accepts both, a smile tugging at the corner of his lip. He pulls the sweater over his head, Erik watching as it displaces an already unruly mop of hair. The sweater's colour highlights the blue of his eyes. When Charles perches on the end of the steamer trunk to slip on his boots, Erik tears his gaze away and begins struggling into his own outerwear.

He exits the cabin first, scanning the front lawn with both his _mutation_ and his eyes, only stepping aside to let Charles pass when he's certain it's safe. Charles arches another eyebrow--Erik wonders then if this is a gesture he missed while in crane form--and brushes past him. Erik points to the window.

"I've replaced them," he says, rolling his eyes as soon as he's said it, because that much, at least, is painfully obvious. Charles doesn't seem to notice.

He's examining the window, looking entirely too thoughtful for a pair of screws. He opens the shutter; closes it again and then reopens it, leaving them open this time. Long, elegant fingers trace the hinge, Erik mesmerized by the sight. Charles' hand slips away, Erik shaking his head, watching as Charles steps off the porch and begins walking towards the back of the cabin. Erik follows half a pace behind.

The snow crunches loudly beneath his feet, another day of warm sun followed by a night of deep freeze. Oddly, the sound doesn't bother him today, Erik too intent on watching Charles while still scanning the tree-line, searching intently for anything that might represent an impending threat. He doesn't even notice the gathering clouds; doesn't think to assess what the day's weather might bring.

Charles leads them to the exact place Erik retrieved the screws, stepping into Erik's footprints, his boots almost an exact match for Erik's seal-skin prints. Erik approaches his side, stepping over a set of crane tracks, coming then to stand at Charles' shoulder.

"Have you ever used your powers in plain sight?" Charles asks even as he falls into a graceful crouch. He ghosts fingers across the snow, glancing over his shoulder then to meet Erik's gaze.

"Not in any obvious way, but yes," Erik answers, thinking then of all the times he righted Azazel's boat or sharpened the end of his axe. Too often, then, he thinks.

Charles confirms his worry.

"I think he might know you're a mutant. I wasn't able to read his mind while I was a crane, but before his wife changed me, I felt his malice. He believes we are a plague, that he can find redemption if he destroys us."

There is something Charles isn't telling him, Erik stepping close, looming over Charles until Charles rises to his feet. Charles' expression has gone hollow.

"What?" Erik demands, feeling the edge of paranoia creep into his breast until it batters against his bruised ribcage, threatens internal bleeding. He remembers this feeling well; it followed him his entire childhood, lingering through his teen years. It has remained a constant companion, waning only with the passage of time, and even then, not by much.

"He killed her, for what she did; for saving me. I don't think he knew she was a mutant until then. I'm not even sure she did."

Erik takes a step back at that, sudden chill replacing the warmth of Charles' presence. This is something Charles should have told him last night, when he was pleading with Erik to spare Hunter's life. That is no longer an option.

Charles steps forward, back into Erik's space, bringing his warmth with him. His expression has gone grim. "Erik, please. I can help him..." he begins, but Erik is already shaking his head.

"You said you knew of four mutants in the world, and now one of those mutants is dead by the hand of the fourth. Is that why he removed the screws and buried them in the snow? To see if I'd find them? Some kind of test? He's already shot you and now he's hunting me. I'm sorry, Charles. I won't be led like a lamb to the slaughter."

He can tell Charles means to argue, so Erik shuts him out, turning then to walk towards the generator. Dread and something he suspects might be guilt churn in his stomach, Erik nauseous with it. He knows if he turned now he'd find Charles wearing his disappointment; glass tears cutting over porcelain flesh. Erik clenches his jaw, pushes the image aside and concentrates on getting the generator started.

It roars to life a second later and then settles into its usual hum, echoing off the back hill, the noise escalating the tension between them. Erik breathes steadily through his nose and then moves to the pump, reaching into the pump house to flick it on. The water knocks, chasing out an air bubble as it gurgles to life, but it falls silent a minute later, his repair holding. When he's done, he finds Charles standing exactly where Erik left him.

He doesn't look upset, only resolved. Erik shakes his head; steps neatly over a set of crane tracks to reach his side.

"We should go in," he says, because they are exposed out here and regardless of their disagreement, he won't let harm come to Charles, not so long as there is breath in his body. Erik lets that thought echo in his head, feeling momentarily smug when Charles' expression softens.

"All right," he says, picking his way towards the house, Erik falling into step at his shoulder, a constant shadow. He doesn't relax until they are through the door, the shutters still hanging open, soft overcast light filling the cabin.

It strikes him then, standing inside the doorway, Charles slipping off borrowed shoes, that he has known this man for less than half a day. It feels longer. From the moment he decided to accept Charles' story, it's felt like he's known this man his entire life. The experience is as strange as it is new. Erik can't remember ever trusting someone so quickly; certainly he can't remember ever feeling comfortable enough to fall asleep in someone's presence--at least, not since the camps, and that was a sleep born of exhaustion and necessity. He certainly can't remember the last time conversation flowed so freely for him, talking to Charles as easy as breathing.

Even having just argued, Erik feels immensely comfortable in Charles' presence.

He brushes past his shoulder now and crosses to the bathroom, double checks the pipe before coming into the kitchen. His tin is still sitting on the table, broken arrow at its side. Erik flicks open the latch with his powers, the first time he's openly used his power in Charles' presence. He picks up the pieces of the arrow with his hand, rolling them across his palm before neatly transferring them into the tin. Charles appears at his side.

He carries with him that same warmth, arm brushing against Erik's as he leans over the table, peering curiously into Erik's tin. Erik lets him, realizing now that he's invited the snooping, even though he hasn't spoken the words.

"My mother used to keep mementos," he says without meaning to, feeling then like he ought to explain the tin's existence. Charles doesn't say anything; though Erik is well aware he is listening.

He doesn't tell Charles those mementos came from him and his sister, or that she kept them locked inside a cedar box, set on the mantle. Nor does he tell him that he found that box smashed to the ground, its contents trampled on the day the Nazis came for them. The thought is loud, rattling inside his head, so he suspects Charles already knows.

"May I?" Charles asks, Erik following his line of sight, gaze coming to rest on the feather. Erik barks a laugh, something knocking loose in his chest.

"It's yours," he says.

A smile spreads across Charles' face.

He reaches into the tin, fingers brushing against Erik's yellow star to grasp the feather between his thumb and forefinger. He lifts it gingerly; twirls it in his hand, just like he did with the arrow this morning.

"I was careless," Charles says, the words coloured through with fond nostalgia.

He glances over then; catches something of the confusion no doubt written across Erik's face.

"A stoat, of all things. I was too busy trying to keep hares from wandering into your traps. It spooked me, and I'm afraid my bird instincts kicked in." Charles lets out a self-deprecating laugh, as though his time as a bird amuses him greatly. There are a good many things Erik could say to that, but he's still stuck on Charles keeping hares from wandering into his traps.

"That was you?" he says, anger merging with incredulity. He winces as soon as the words have left his mouth. Charles' smile turns sheepish.

"To be fair, they're cruel, horrible things, and I did tell you my instincts were partially bird. They horrified me. I might not have trusted you so completely had I found them first."

He shrugs, then, as though the confession-slash-accusation is nothing extraordinary. Indignity wars with guilt for dominance, Erik half afraid to let either win. He's starting to wonder if every conversation with Charles is going to dissolve into argument. At least the crane didn't talk back.

"I dismantled them" he says, meaning to make a point, but the words make him sound smaller than he can ever remember sounding; smaller even than he sounded in the camps. Charles' smile grows soft, Erik forgetting to be angry.

"I know," he says, sounding so thoroughly delighted that Erik cannot help but flush in pleasure.

He feels idiotic the moment he realizes what he's doing, Erik shaking his head. It's ridiculous how many contrary emotions this man stirs in his breast. He can't tell if he's coming or going. Charles doesn't say anything else, but he hands back the feather, Erik reaching for it, trying to ignore the spark of contact that comes when their fingers brush. He focuses instead on placing it back into the tin, nestled now between the broken pieces of the arrow and Erik's star. He closes the tin, sealing the latch and then pushing it aside. When he glances back up, Charles is still watching him.

"So what now?" Erik asks, because he doesn't have a precedent for this. He has no idea what to do with a man turned crane turned man again.

Charles turns completely to face him, setting his hip against the table. Already he seems to occupy the whole of the cabin, his presence seeping into corners and burrowing into crevices. He could leave tomorrow and Erik would never be free of him. Erik's throat tightens at the thought.

"It's entirely up to you," Charles begins, "but I'd like very much to stay, at least until we can make other arrangements. Our primary concern needs to be Hunter."

"I won't let him hurt you," Erik says, overriding anything else Charles might have said. Charles pauses, reaching forward then to wrap his hand around Erik's forearm, an exact mirror of last night, the numbers of Erik's tattoo seeming to throb in time to the frantic pulsing of Erik's heart.

"Erik," Charles says, cautiously, as though speaking to a startled animal. Erik bristles, but he nods for Charles to continue. "Please believe me when I say I want justice, for Hunter's wife and for the man he killed. But killing Hunter won't solve anything. Let us find him. Let me help him."

Erik's already shaking his head. "And if I can't promise that? Then what? You'll leave?" He should have known he was just another mutant in Charles' eyes.

Charles' expression grows dim, and he squeezes Erik's forearm. "I'll only leave if you want me to," he says, catching Erik's eye then, expression so open Erik's breath catches, his objections dying on his tongue. "We have the chance to stand at the start of something here, Erik. Finding you is the single greatest event in my life. I don't want to do this alone. I want you at my side. Tell me you don't want that."

There is something imploring, not just in Charles' words, but in the frantic searching of his gaze, as though the thought of Erik sending him away in truly anathema to him. Erik wants to reassure him then; to tell him that he wants a good many things, things he hasn't thought to want since he was a child, things he won't acknowledge even now.

Like last night, it is hard not to get swept away by Charles' enthusiasm. The idea of finding others like him--of belonging--is seductive, but it is the thought of spending his life at this man's side that decides it.

"So what? We find this Hunter--and I will not restrain myself if he proves even the slightest threat--and then what?"

He still needs to know. He's fairly certain Charles doesn't intend to take up fishing.

"Come with me to New York," Charles says, stepping further into Erik's space, hand coming back to Erik's arm, curling this time around his wrist. His eyes are bright and impossibly large. Erik feels like he's drowning in them. He's close, too close, his presence intoxicating. Erik can do nothing but nod.

The relief on Charles' face is so obvious Erik's surprised he doesn't swoon with it. His smile grows bright, distinctively pleased. For a moment, Erik fears Charles might draw him into a hug, the thought so alarming Erik tenses and takes a step back, breaking the contact between them. Charles' smile doesn't falter, but he lets Erik go, ducking his head in faint apology. He retreats back a step, allowing Erik some space.

"You won't regret this," he says, Erik uncertain what to say to that, his entire life changed in the blink of an eye. He nods again, more for the sake of displacing tense energy, and then turns, heading back into the kitchen, needing the space.

To his relief Charles doesn't follow, Erik listening faintly to the sound of a chair scraping against the floorboards; a resounding creak as Charles sits upon it. Erik busies himself filling a kettle for coffee--ironic that only yesterday he discounted adding coffee to his supply list--and then moves to the woodstove to add more wood. When the fire is no longer in danger of burning itself out, he sets the kettle upon the stove and returns to the kitchen.

He spots the box of muesli still sitting on the counter.

"I hope you like cereal for breakfast," he says, glancing over his shoulder then, Charles sitting at the table, still watching Erik intently--man or bird; that, at least, hasn't changed. A wide smile spreads across Charles' face.

"That sounds lovely. I quite enjoyed it, you know. And then, if it's not too much trouble, I wouldn't mind a bath."

He says it like he's expecting Erik to refuse--something Erik seems incapable of doing when it comes to this man--but his smile doesn't waiver. Erik nods, already filling a pot for the stove. The thought of Charles crouched inside Erik's tiny wash basin briefly flashes through his mind, Erik nearly spilling the water as he lifts the pot; carries it to the stove.


	13. Chapter 13

Heating enough water for the wash basin occupies most of the morning, Erik oddly comfortable working under the familiar weight of Charles' gaze. It's funny how that hasn't changed. He spares Charles a glance as carries the last of the water to the tub; finds Charles perched in the centre of the bed, an amused smirk pulling at his lips.

"I am capable of pouring my own bath," he says, not for the first time. Erik smiles, dumps the pot into the tub, steam rising from its surface. He dips a pinky in when he's done; the water hot enough to soothe aching muscles, cool enough not to scald.

"I'm sorry about the door," he says, rising, the tub blocking the bathroom door, Erik regretting now not finding a place with a proper bathtub. It's funny how that hasn't bothered him before now.

Charles shrugs. "It's fine," he says, as though bathing in the open really doesn't bother him. Erik fights an awkward flush, resisting the urge to duck his head and escape Charles' piercing gaze.

Charles obviously isn't bothered by the idea at all. He slips off the bed and crosses to the tub, offering Erik a tooth-filled grin even as his hands come to the hem of Erik's sweater. Heat stains Erik's cheeks.

"I'll leave you to it," he says, gesturing to the front door. Charles' head snaps up.

"You're leaving?" he asks, sounding rather panicked.

"We need wood," Erik answers, purposely ignoring the pile beside the stove. Charles doesn't; glancing to the pile and then back to Erik, eyebrow raised. Erik offers a shrug even as he tries not to picture Charles stripping off his clothes; sinking into warm water, flush spreading across the pale expanse of his skin.

"Promise me you won't go after Hunter," Charles says, sounding entirely too stern for a man half out of his trousers.

Erik's expression hardens. They discussed this at length while Erik was clearing their breakfast and boiling water for Charles' bath.

"I said I wouldn't," Erik says, though he hasn't made any promises regarding what he'll do if Hunter finds them.

Charles frowns. He shimmies Erik's trousers the rest of the way off, the hem of Erik's undershirt the only thing blocking his cock from sight, Erik having neglected to loan him underwear. Erik swallows; forces his gaze back up to Charles' face.

"You won't find him, Erik. His mutation precludes it. I know it frustrates you, but we have to wait for him to make the first move, and if we're too busy looking for something we won't find then we'll give him the advantage."

Erik clenches his jaw; irked by the reprimand. He tries not to take out his frustration on Charles, because he knows Charles can't help the things he overhears--knows Charles can read his frustration even without his telepathy. He knows, too, that Charles is only looking out for them both; ensuring their safety at any cost. Still, it isn't easy to acquiesce to anyone, especially a man he's technically known for less than a day.

"I said I wouldn't look for him," Erik reaffirms, which seems to be enough for Charles. He nods and then reaches for the hem of his shirt, Erik turning swiftly, face no doubt scarlet. He doesn't wait to see if Charles needs anything else, slipping neatly into his boots and then heading outside, coat left behind.

Outside, Erik spends several minutes standing on the front porch, breathing deep the cold, crisp air. It clears his head, though only marginally. He scolds himself then for being so ridiculous--for being so obvious--especially in the presence of a telepath. He thinks then of the men in the camps; of pink triangles and what it meant to be burdened a fate worse than that of a Jew. He thinks of his liberation and of the men who were subsequently re-arrested, their nightmare never-ending.

He wonders then if this is Charles' doing, though for as much as he would like somewhere to assign blame, Erik has fought these impulses far longer than the scant twelve hours he has known Charles. He has simply never come so close to caving to their seduction.

Erik steps off the porch, the crunch of snow beneath his feet chasing away the memory of Charles skin, pale and delicate like a crane's feathers; inexplicable beautiful. New memories, old memories, flood in to replace it, Erik steeling himself against their invasion. He turns his attention to casting his gaze over his property.

It hasn't snowed in days, his lawn still a mishmash of tracks. Erik is unable to discern old from new. He scrutinizes the larger tracks, remembering then Hunter's mutation. Track mimicry. Any of these could belong to him. He eyes a set of fox prints, the same he carefully avoided the other day. He thinks briefly of disregarding Charles' instructions; of heading in search of Hunter, finding him before it is too late. Erik has been hunted. It is not an experience he wishes to repeat.

He remembers then his last search, the entire hillside scoured with nothing to show for it. He doubts a second attempt will prove any more fruitful. If Charles is right--and Erik has no reason to doubt him--then they will only find Hunter when Hunter wants to be found. That doesn't stop Erik from reaching out, scanning the area for any displaced metal.

His attention is immediately drawn to the wash basin in the cabin, Erik feeling a little like an unwanted voyeur, though at best he only gathers a vague sense of movement. Mostly he's aware of the water, warm and heavy, heating the metal even as its heat leaches into Charles' skin.

Erik lets the sensation linger in the back of his head as he crosses to his shed to retrieve his axe.

It doesn't take long before he's lost himself to the monotony of chopping, each swing pulling nicely across his muscles, even though his ribs still aren't entirely healed. The thwack of the axe hitting the wood is a pulsing rhythm that echoes in his ears. Sweat soon prickles against the back of his neck, Erik shedding his sweater. He debates removing his undershirt, too, the day having turned warm, but there is a chance Charles will finish early; will seek Erik's company outside and Erik does not particularly want Charles to see his scars. More importantly, he does not want Charles to see his tattoo.

Too late it occurs to him that Charles undoubtedly knows.

Erik takes another swing.

His pile grows increasingly large, and when he runs out of room under his wood shelter, he begins piling it on his porch. At one point, the pull of metal draws Erik's gaze to the front porch, though he immediately recognizes the eyelets in his work boots, so it isn't a surprise to find Charles standing on the porch, watching him intently. Charles is once again wearing Erik's sweater, hair damp and hanging in ringlets around the back of his neck. Erik pauses mid-swing to stare.

"I think you might have enough," Charles calls, wearing a ridiculously pleased grin. Erik fumbles through his next swing--comes dangerously close to hitting his leg--and then sets the axe down next to his pile.

"You'll thank me for it later," he calls over, grinning, the steady exertion of work having lightened his mood.

Charles tips his head back and laughs, the sound light and amused. Erik tries not to flush, even as he gathers another load of wood, carrying it over to add to the already substantial pile on the porch. Charles waits for him to set it down before stopping him, two fingers pressed into the damp of Erik's chest.

"I was surprisingly clean, for having spent the last few weeks a bird. If you want, the water's still warm."

His smile is sly as he says it, as though he has no compunction against watching Erik bathe. It strikes Erik then that Charles is--and has been since the beginning--entirely too friendly; entirely too trusting.

Erik takes a step back. Charles' expression falls.

"Are you using your telepathy on me?" he asks, not at all what he means to say, but that doesn't dull the suspicion. Why else would Erik so freely abandon a lifetime of apprehension and doubt?

Charles opens his mouth, though nothing comes out, his eyes reflecting his disappointment--it's almost enough to make Erik reconsider; to make him beg forgiveness because the expression doesn't belong on Charles' face. Instead he squares his shoulders and hardens his gaze.

Charles shakes his head. "Oh, Erik, of course not. Certainly not without your permission, and even then only because I can't help what I overhear. I'd ask why it's so hard for you to believe that, but I do understand."

Erik isn't sure if that makes it better or worse. He says as much. Charles offers a sympathetic smile.

"What did I say to you, when we first met?" Charles asks.

He's still encroaching on Erik's space, hand pressed into the damp of Erik's shirt. Without the chopping to keep him warm, Erik has grown chilled, skin erupting into gooseflesh. He fights the urge to step fully into Charles' warmth; fights the urge to offer a witty answer in the form of a crane call. Instead he shakes his head.

"I told you, you weren't alone, and I meant it. And that goes for me as well. Do you have any idea...?" is as far as he gets before Erik is shaking his head; drawing back, cold air rushing in to fill Charles' void. Erik shivers.

"How can you be so trusting? How can you possibly be so willing to see the best in me? You don't know me. You don't know anything about me."

The words are a whisper, but he feels as though he's been shouting, his throat hoarse and burning. He shakes his head, though whether he's denying the truth of Charles' words or his own inadequacies, Erik doesn't know. This entire conversation is suffocating.

Charles' gaze is still soft. Erik stands his ground, jaw clenched against any more of Charles' honey coated words.

"Erik," Charles says, the edges of a smirk tugging at his lips, like he finds this entire thing comical. Erik is enraged by the sight. His ire lasts just until Charles speaks, anger dissipating by the second word.

"I defecated on your bathroom floor and you cleaned up after me. If that doesn't earn a man's trust, I'm not sure what does."

The ridiculousness of the situation strikes him then, hysterical laughter bubbling up in his chest until he has no choice but to let it out, Erik rather embarrassed by the giddy chuckle that escapes his throat. Charles grins, as though expecting the response.

"Are you always this preposterous?" Erik asks.

Charles nods, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"Are you done?" he asks, gesturing to the wood. Erik glances again to the pile; finds himself chuckling all over again. He now has enough wood to last him the entire winter and then some.

Charles still waits for him to incline his head before gesturing over his shoulder, to the front door.

Inside, his gaze is immediately drawn to the wash basin, still sitting half in his bathroom, half in the main room, blocking the bathroom door. Charles appears at his shoulder, oddly relaxed for a man Erik has just accused of... well, a good number of things, least of all naivety.

"I thought about emptying it for you, but I have no idea how you manage it. The thing must weigh at least a hundred pounds."

Erik huffs another laugh.

"I'll take care of it," he says, feeling oddly smug; at least, until Charles catches wind of it, because as soon as he does he cocks his head, shaking it a minute later.

"Metal basin," he says.

Erik finds himself oddly disappointed, though he nods.

Charles is still smiling, looking entirely too amused for a man who's spent the last few weeks as a bird; entirely too comfortable for a man being hunted by a mutant hating mutant. There is something in his gaze, too, fond and soft, Charles looking at Erik like no one else ever has. Something spikes in Erik's gut, a sensation he recognizes as equal parts fear and lust. Charles must sense something of the fear--or maybe he's repulsed by the lust--because he ducks his head and retreats to the trunk to pull off his boots. Erik crosses to the wash basin.

The water is still warm, and surprisingly clear, though he has no interest in bathing in Charles' presence--and he has no intentions of allowing Charles outside without escort, so Erik retrieves a pot of it and takes it into the bathroom to fill the sink. When he's done, he opens the front door, easily lifting the basin and carrying it outside. He dumps it over the side of the porch, water steaming over the snow, cascading down the side of his lawn in a frothy river.

Charles is still sitting on the trunk, looking like he belongs exactly there. His boots are off, his knees drawn to his chest, gaze considering. Erik offers a brief nod.

"I'll just be a minute," Erik says, not waiting for a reply as he retrieves a clean set of clothes and brings them into the bathroom. He doesn't relax until the door is shut firmly behind him, Charles on the other side.

It's after lunch, the day having gotten away from him, again, so he doesn't lingering through washing. He strips off his sweat-soaked shirt and tosses it into the washing machine and then wets a cloth with Charles' still-warm water to run over his torso, taking care to wash away the worst of his stench before slipping into a clean shirt.

Charles is no longer sitting on the trunk when Erik emerges, feeling only marginally better than he did when he went in. Erik's first instinct is to panic, until he catches sight of Charles moving around the kitchen, at home there as he is anywhere else in Erik's cabin. Erik freezes, momentarily caught by a strange sense of possessiveness. He can't remember ever feeling the like, Erik wanting then to storm across the room and sweep Charles into his arms. As though sensing the thought, Charles glances over his shoulder, eyes bright.

"You fed me so many times, I thought I ought to try returning the favour," he says.

It is only then that Erik realizes that Charles is in the middle of fixing them lunch. He's not sure anyone has ever made him lunch; at least, not since his mother died.

"I..." is as far as he gets before words abandon him, Erik nodding, gesturing for Charles to continue. Charles smiles and goes back to cutting some of the leftover bread from Raven.

They eat in companionable silence, and then Charles does a load of dishes while Erik prepares a fiskesuppe for their supper. It is strange to work alongside someone off a boat, Erik surprised by how quickly they fall into a rhythm. Charles knows instinctively--though Erik suspects that is his telepathy--when to move aside and allow Erik access to the sink, while Erik seems to know exactly when to point to a cupboard when Charles is at a loss for where to put clean a knife or plate.

The afternoon passes much the same, Erik puttering about the cabin, catching up on chores, while Charles snoops or follows on Erik's heels, a comfortable presence, never intrusive. He smiles broadly when Erik pulls out the washing machine, moving the giant, hulking thing with his powers, Charles' eyes lighting up, like Erik's mutation truly is a gift rather than a curse.

"Of course it's a gift," he says. "But more than that, it's an evolutionary leap forward. Erik, what you can do is fantastic. You, my friend, have a very groovy mutation."

The washing machine lies forgotten, pulled to the centre of Erik's tiny bathroom--blocking both the toilet and the sink--hoses connected but left dormant. Charles has already pulled him to the bed, ignoring Erik's protests as he sits them on its edge. He turns, crossing his legs and bullying Erik into doing the same, never once relinquishing his grip on Erik's hands. Erik tries desperately to calm the nervous twitter of his heart. Charles only smiles at him, lost in the marvel of evolution.

"What is the largest thing you have managed?" he asks, sounding entirely too excited, yet Erik cannot seem to begrudge him his enthusiasm. More than that, he finds himself wanting to answer Charles' questions; to lay his soul bare before this man.

It still feels like boasting to say, "I kept Azazel's boat from capsizing a few days ago, just before I found you."

Charles smiles broadly at him; tells him he's remarkable. Erik's not entirely certain what to say to that.

Instead he lets Charles speak, light from the still open shutter falling into the cabin, a patch of sunlight tracking the hours across the floor. They discuss Azazel's boat, Charles wanting to know what it's made of and how big it is and how heavy it is and what the sea conditions were like. It is like being grilled by a very enthusiastic and slightly mad scientist. Until this point, Erik has been rather distasteful of scientists. He rather finds Charles' enthusiastic inquiries amusing.

"So you feared for your life?" Charles asks, still fixated on the storm; on Erik steadying the ship to get her into harbour.

"I was exhausted for days after," Erik says, though he offers a slight nod in response to Charles' question.

"When it manifested, the first time it manifested, where were you? What were you feeling?"

Erik has spent the whole of his life avoiding answering personal questions, and yet, with Charles, it feels as though he cannot answer fast enough. He wants to share the whole of his history. In that moment, he would willingly roll up his sleeves; allow Charles to trace fingertips across Erik's hated tattoo.

"I was asleep," he answers honestly, and then tells the story of waking to find everything metal within a fifty-foot radius hovering mid air.

Charles leans forward excitedly, hands tightening around Erik's, warm spreading up Erik's limbs to settle somewhere in the centre of his torso. Erik's heart stutters painfully against the added pressure.

"Do you remember what you were dreaming?" Charles asks.

Erik falters, expression clouding, because Erik's dreams are never pleasant, and he doubts that night was any exception. He wants then to pull away, to break the contact between them, but Charles already seems to sense his shift in mood. He squeezes Erik's hands and shakes his head.

"I'm sorry. You don't have to answer that. It's just a theory, anyway, but I think you were probably caught hyper-aware when your powers manifested, so they were largely fueled by your fear. I suspect it is now easier for you to access them, control them, when you are afraid, like you were during the storm."

Erik hasn't considered that possibility before, though now that Charles mentions it, it does make considerable sense.

"I think," Charles continues, "that I can help you. Oh, Erik, you're not even using a tenth of what you're capable of. When you figure out how to move past that block, you will possess a power no one can match, not even me."

Charles sounds so earnest; so eager to help Erik... do what? Harness the power of a god? Erik has no idea what to say to that. He wants to refuse; to cast Charles from his life before he gives anything more of himself to this man. Instead he nods, fear fluttering in his heart, even as an exhilarated thrill courses through his bloodstream.

In that moment, he could probably lift a submarine from the sea.

Charles beams at him and then relinquishes his hold of Erik's hands. Erik tries not to mourn the loss of warmth; the loss of contact. Instead he watches as Charles twists and leans back, sweater riding up to expose the jut of his hip as he reaches onto Erik's nightstand to retrieve Erik's pocket watch. He looks particularly pleased with himself when he returns, holding the watch out in his outstretched hand.

"Let's start with something small," he says, handing it over.

Erik accepts it, not quite certain what Charles is aiming at.

"Take it apart," Charles says, nodding to it. Erik frowns; shakes his head. "I want you to feel the watch, become it, and then I want you to take it apart, piece by piece, gear by gear, and then put it back together again and still have it work."

Erik's eyes grow wide. He shakes his head again, because what Charles is asking is impossible. He can handle the watch; levitate it and spin it and float it across the room. He can probably even take it apart. But to put it back together again and still have it work, that is beyond him.

"I can't," he says, but Charles merely tuts at him.

"Of course you can." There is something in Charles' expression; filled with such infinite trust and _belief_ that Erik finds himself incapable of refusing.

He floats the watch from Charles' fingertips to his palm and then catches Charles' eye. Charles nods, encouraging smile stuck firmly in place. Erik turns his attention back to the watch. He feels the metal, letting his gaze focus deeper, until he can sense every gear, every spring. The whole of its mechanics fill his head, a detailed blueprint emerging as he turns the watch before him, gold glinting as it spins in the air, untouched by Erik's hands.

He gestures with his finger, flipping it open to stare at is face. _This might actually be possible_ , he thinks, already loosening the screw that holds the components together. Across the bed, leaning across his knees and staring intently at Erik's hands, Charles sits patiently, radiating expectant confidence.

Erik dismantles the watch.


	14. Chapter 14

He returns from shutting down the generator to find Charles sitting on the edge of the bed, single watch gear caught between his thumb and forefinger. The rest of Erik's watch sits in tiny pieces on his nightstand, Charles ignoring them in favour of the gear. He twists it back and forth, light from the hurricane lamp glinting off the metal.

The lamp casts warm yellow shadows across the pale expanse of his cheek. Erik stares, transfixed. Charles hasn't noticed his return yet, or if he has, he's decided against acknowledging it--Erik suspects it's the latter; he very much doubts there is anything that escapes Charles' attention. It still gives Erik leeway to look, the sight of Charles filling Erik's space still entirely too fragile.

The cabin is quiet without the hum of the generator or the knocking of the pump; a silence Erik never fails to notice. It is marred only by the steady drumming of icy rain against the roof and windows, the weather having turned sour shortly after supper. By morning the rain will have washed away the snow and coated the trees in ice. It is hard to picture, Erik distracted by the warmth of Charles' thumb running along the edge of the gear. It chases away the chill from outside, Erik soaked through with damp.

The cabin is damp too; Erik's freshly washed laundry hanging from the drying rack in the corner, adding to the problem, the air thick with moisture.

"That watch had sentimental value, you know," he says, a bid to attract Charles' attention and the first time he's commented on his failure to put it back together. He moves to the trunk to pull off sodden boots.

"No it didn't." To Erik's disappointment, Charles doesn't look up from the gear. He traces his finger around its edge again. Erik shivers. "The memory it accompanies has sentimental value. The watch is a trinket you bought in a pawn shop." He glances over then, eyes growing wide when he takes in Erik's soggy state. Erik preens under the attention, even as he chastises himself for his foolishness.

"Oh Erik," Charles says, carefully setting the gear back on the nightstand, amidst the pieces of what was once Erik's watch.

He stands then and crosses to Erik's side, setting a hand on Erik's shoulder to brush away pearls of rain. Erik wants to shrug; instead he remains impossibly still, terrified of disrupting Charles' hand.

It is for nothing, Charles' hand falling away a second later. He gives Erik a considering look and then retreats to the bathroom, Erik momentarily suffocated by his leaving. The sensation lasts just until Charles returns, towel in hand. Charles hesitates briefly before handing it over.

"You're going to catch a chill. You should get into some dry clothes," he says, nodding to Erik's sweater. He makes no move to leave.

Erik stares for what must be a full minute, though it feels longer, Charles watching him placidly, so much like the crane that Erik's throat runs dry. He brings the towel to his face just to block the sight, wiping water from his eyes before toweling dry his hair.

When he emerges from beneath the towel he finds Charles standing next to the dresser, rooting through one of Erik's drawers. He comes away with a dry undershirt and a pair of long underwear that match the ones Charles is wearing. The shirt is a different shade of grey.

Erik sets the towel down on the trunk beside him, pulls off his socks and then stands. He reaches for the hem of his sweater, tugging it over his head, the scent of wet wool thick in his nose. He hangs the sweater over the back of the chair nearest the fire and then plucks the dry clothes from Charles' hands.

"Thank you," he says, and then crosses to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him despite the absence of light. Erik changes in the dark, hanging his damp clothes off the back of the door before slipping into dry. When he returns to the main room, Charles is once again sitting in the middle of the bed.

He occupies the space fully, like he belongs exactly there. Erik's stomach tightens at the thought. He eyes the bed speculatively and then glances to his nightstand.

Charles follows his gaze, the pull of the watch's metal almost enough to make Erik want to try again, despite the disaster of his last attempt. He recognizes the impulse for what it is--a distraction--though Charles seems to think he's fixating, because he says, "You will put this back together, Erik. I have the utmost faith in you," looking so entirely convinced that Erik actually believes him.

He shakes his head. It hardly matters. Like Charles said, it was just a trinket, bought in a second hand pawn shop, meant to replace a memory he's no longer certain holds any meaning. He holds up a hand before Charles can protest the thought, and then moves to the trunk.

There are enough spare blankets to make a pallet on the floor, though Erik has never had a reason before now. He's slept on worse, Erik shaking out the first blanket and then folding it in half; laying it next to the woodstove where the fire's heat has warmed the wood of the floors.

"What are you doing?" Charles asks from his place on the bed.

Erik glances up, confused. He glances back down to his makeshift pallet, and then back up to Charles, Charles still framed in the light of the lamp. Erik doesn't answer, but Charles seems to catch the direction of his thoughts, because he tuts and shakes his head.

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm hardly going to kick you out of your bed, and besides, we've been sharing a bed for days." He shifts over then, turning down the cover and patting the space next to him. "There is plenty of room."

Erik's eyes grow wide at the suggestion. From his vantage point, the bed is impossibly small. Awkward embarrassment mingles with something he doesn't want to question, Erik shaking his head, because sharing a bed with Charles when he was a bird was one thing; sharing a bed with Charles now something else entirely.

Charles arches an eyebrow. In the low light of the lamp it makes him look far younger than he actually is.

"You'll share a bed with me when I'm a bird, but not now that I'm human? To be honest, Erik, I think the former is a bit more Avant-garde." He sounds entirely too amused, a mischievous smirk plastered across his face. He's still staring intently at Erik, blanket still turned down in invitation. Erik glances back to his pallet.

He ought to say no; he ought to refuse and sleep beside the woodstove. It would be warm beside the woodstove. Instead he nods, without really knowing why, telling himself this is no different from the childhood bed he shared with his sister and the countless bodies he slept next to in the camps. It is a source of warmth and a padded mattress beneath him, nothing more.

From his place in the bed, Charles' smirk turns into a genuine smile.

"You'll need to move over," Erik says, not wanting to explain his need for left side; or his need to have his back against the wall. Charles, he suspects, already knows. It shows in how quickly Charles shifts to the right side, turning down the other cover, even though Erik will now have to climb over him to get into bed.

Erik busies himself folding and putting away the blankets he took out. When he's done, he pauses to add wood to the fire. He is in no way trying to muster his courage. That doesn't stop his stomach from twisting into knots when he runs out of things to occupy his attention, the thought of crawling into bed with Charles both terrifying and exhilarating.

He refuses to acknowledge the tiny part of him that hoped Charles would invite him into bed.

He stamps down on both of those thoughts before they can fully form, not wanting Charles to get either of them.

There is nothing in Charles' gaze to suggest he has caught any of that. Instead he looks only expectant, patiently waiting for Erik to crawl in beside him. Erik double checks the stove and then moves to the end of the bed, opting to crawl up it instead of climbing over Charles. He slides quickly beneath the covers, spending far longer than usual getting settled.

He normally sleeps on his side, with his back to the wall, Erik liking the added security. But turning on his side will mean facing Charles, so Erik settles on his back, acutely aware of the warm weight at his side; impossible to mistake for a bird. He can feel the weight of Charles' gaze, Erik resisting the urge to turn his head; to meet Charles' eye. He settles a little more fully into the covers; burrowing into his pillow as though he can hide from sight beneath the thick covers.

He hears rather than sees Charles' snorted laugh, coloured through with exasperation and something Erik thinks might be frustration. Erik doesn't acknowledge it--doesn't want to question it--staring instead up at the ceiling, the rain still droning against the roof, echoing in the open rafters. The sound is lulling, Erik using it as his centre-point for concentration. He feels Charles shift beside him.

"Goodnight Erik," he says, far softer than Erik has ever heard. Erik doesn't turn, body taut with tension, limbs tingling with Charles' proximity.

"Goodnight," he manages, though his voice sounds gruff to his own ears; shaky in a way it hasn't since he was a child. If Charles hears it, he is kind enough not to say anything.

It is a long time before Erik succumbs to sleep, the steady drumming of rain and the hypnotic rhythm of Charles' breathing not enough to calm the frantic beating of his heart. Erik stares at the ceiling until his eyes begin to burn, and then he closes them, letting himself drift, still entirely too aware of Charles to cave to slumber. His scent carries throughout the room; Erik's soap and the must of Erik's clothes mingling with something uniquely Charles.

It's not at all like sharing a bed with the crane.

He knows the minute Charles falls asleep, still turned on his side, curled towards Erik, the heat of his gaze vanishing, replaced by the quiet hush of his breathing and the warmth of his body. Only then does Erik hazard a glance, opening his eyes as he turns his head, Charles backlit by the lamp Erik hasn't bothered extinguishing. He lifts a hand now, crooking a finger to twist the metal knob, the room falling into darkness, and yet still Charles' features are visible. They haven't shuttered the window, moonlight streaming in, carving a path across the floor and providing enough light to see. Erik stares for several minutes longer than is proper, and then returns his gaze to the ceiling; closing his eyes again and willing himself to sleep.

Sleep comes, though his rest is fitful, Erik entirely too aware of the body occupying the right half of his bed. It is well into the early hours of the morning when Charles reaches for him, wrapping a firm hand around Erik's forearm and tugging, pulling until Erik has no choice but to turn onto his side, arm coming to rest around Charles' waist. Charles mutters something both appreciative and soothing, and immediately the surge of panic swirling in his gut settles, Erik relaxing; sinking more firmly into the mattress.

[ ](http://nekosmuse.com/crane/CRANE04.jpg)

The sleep that follows is deep and restful and, Erik suspects, unnatural, though he cannot find it in him to mind. When he wakes, it is to the dreary light of an overcast morning, the sound of rain still drumming above his head and the soft brush of hair tickling against his nose. Erik relishes the latter for several long minutes. Sleep-drunk, he inhales; the scent of Charles filling his senses, but in the haze of early morning consciousness he can't find the will to panic. Instead he burrows closer, until he is entirely surrounded by the unmistakable scent of Charles.

Charles is pressed against him, back to front, curled perfectly against Erik's body, radiating far more warmth than the stove ever could. Some dim, distant part of Erik thinks that he ought to move--to pull away and put some space between them--but his brain hasn't quite caught up with being awake yet, so instead he tightens his grip on Charles' waist, pulling Charles impossibly close.

He can't remember the last time he was so close to another person--not since the camps, anyway, and then the circumstances were entirely different. Charles when he was a crane comes close, but it was nothing like this. Something sparks inside his chest; some pang of longing he thought long-since vanquished.

Charles is still asleep--Erik can tell by the steady in and out of his breathing--Erik taking the opportunity to press his nose to the back of Charles' neck, inhaling deep the scent of skin and sweat and soap. The pang of longing intensifies. The silk of Charles' skin curls Erik's toes, his entire body tingling with the contact. He wants more than anything to press his lips to the space.

Instead he withdraws, chastising himself for invading Charles' space. He thinks back to the men he knew in the camps, the ones the guards took extra care to beat; the ones the guards found any excuse to shoot in the back. The hand wrapped around Charles' waist trembles, Erik curling his hand into a fist before sliding it back, intending to pull it free; to slip from the bed and start the day, allow Charles to wake alone.

Except, he gets as far as Charles' hip when a hand stops him, Erik freezing, Charles' fingers searing like a brand around his wrist.

He wants to shake Charles loose; to flee from the surge of emotion swirling in his breast. He wants, too, to return his grip to Charles' waist; to pull him close and rut against him until they are both breathless and panting and covered in sweat.

The force of the last thought is particularly vivid, Erik drawing back, sharp enough that he half drags Charles with him. Charles rolls effortlessly, turning so they are face to face, Charles pressed along Erik's length. In this position, it would be impossible for Charles to mistake Erik's hardness for anything other than an erection. In this position, it is impossible to mistake Charles' hardness for anything other than the same.

"That wasn't..."

"No, that was mine," Charles says, simply, unashamedly. He shifts again, bringing them into closer contact, sparks of electricity racing through Erik's groin, his entire body arching into the sensation. He only barely manages to stifle a groan. Charles has no such compunction. The sound of it coils in the pit of Erik's stomach.

He breathes heavily through his nose, forces himself to draw back and says, "You don't know what you're saying."

He thinks then of the men in the camps; of their broken, withered bodies; of how hard they were to burn without any fat. Charles is healthy, his skin flushed with vitality, his body solid and firm. For the life of him it is impossible to picture Charles in their place. Erik is almost glad.

"Perhaps I haven't been clear," Charles says, sounding far too calm given the circumstances. Erik can do nothing but stare, the urge to shift back into Charles' space--to press against him until Charles' shared fantasy is made real--is almost more than he can bear. Charles neatly aligns their hips before continuing. "When I said you're not alone, I meant, you're not alone."

It is hard to mistake Charles statement for anything other than what it is, and yet Erik still shakes his head, denial his last defense. It is not the risk to himself he's worried about; it is the risk to Charles. Erik has seen first-hand what happens to men like them.

Charles tsks and then slides impossibly closer, shaking his head as he presses further into Erik's space. Warmth spreads across Erik's core, his heart stuttering painfully in his chest. Erik swallows against the urge to whimper at the sensation. Already he is dizzy with want.

"Do you have any idea," Charles says, shifting slightly, one of his legs pressing forward, making Erik want to spread his legs, despite his reservations. The hand not pillowed beneath Charles' head walks up the length of Erik's arm, stopping at Erik's shoulder to pull him closer. Charles' grip is like a vice.

"Do you have any idea how lucky I was to find you? Not just a mutant Erik, but a powerful mutant, who didn't immediately want to kill me and who also happened to share my, shall we say persuasion? And more importantly, someone I genuinely like; not to mention find exceedingly attractive?"

It is hard to concentrate with Charles so close, Erik drunk off his nearness. That he manages to get out, "Do you have any idea what they would do to you?" is probably some kind of miracle.

He says it meaning to convey his panic and alarm, but instead he finds the statement oddly sobering. The cold steel of certainty settles in his stomach, resolve defusing Erik's libido. He still wants so badly to gather Charles into his arms; to pull him flush and kiss him until they are both heady with desire, but protecting Charles--keeping Charles safe--is far more important.

Charles is staring at him, looking decidedly disappointed, as though he has heard Erik's logic and found it wanting. Erik scowls, wanting then to rage and fight; to strike out and wound Charles before Charles has a chance to wound him. Instead he finds himself settling, Charles' hand once again poised over his tattoo. Erik grits his teeth.

"Do not use your telepathy on me; not in this."

Charles immediately relinquishes his grip, expression falling. Erik feels like he's been gutted. He's also done a fairly solid job of killing anything that might have ignited between them.

"I didn't, and aside from helping you sleep last night, I haven't. I could, but I won't, and that, Erik, is exactly my point. You ask what they might do to me, but the real question is; what could I do to them? What could you do to them? I'm not advocating violence, but we are an entirely new species. We can dictate our own norms; our own rules. We don't have to be bound by their prejudices.

"I know what you've been through, and I'm sorry, I truly am, but it won't happen again, not if I have to change every single mind on the planet. I promise you that."

It is hardly the first time Erik has considered the potential of what he can do--it isn't even the first time he's contemplated the power Charles wields--but hearing Charles say it aloud does far more to appease Erik's worry than anything else Charles might have said. A new want slips in to take the place of his smothered lust. It is not, apparently, the reaction Charles was hoping for, because he shakes his head, draws even further back, as though planning to slip from the bed. Erik grabs his arm and pulls him back. He has grown used to Charles' warmth. To lose it now would feel like losing a limb.

Charles comes willingly, though there is only placid curiosity in his gaze.

"They will fear us," Erik says, because he's not entirely certain Charles understands that yet. "They will learn what we can do and they will fear us."

Charles looks entirely too sad when he says, "Yes." Erik is emboldened.

"They will hunt us down and either lock us away or kill us, Charles. You can't think they will allow us our freedom, knowing what we are capable of."

Charles narrows his gaze; shakes his head. Belatedly, Erik realizes he still has a firm grip on Charles' arm. He doesn't let go.

"It doesn't have to be that way," Charles says, though there is no bite to his words; no fire. Erik isn't sure what to make of that. His grip tightens.

"I've seen it happen and I won't let it happen again," Erik says, aware then of just how close Charles has gotten--closer even than he was before. He wonders then what's stopping him. If he's right, and they will lock them away simply for what they can do, what difference could this possibly make? Even now they are being hunted by one of their own--and if that doesn't prove Erik's point he doesn't know what does--their lives measured in borrowed time. Why shouldn't he take what he wants? For that matter, why shouldn't Charles?

Erik blinks; realizes then he's staring at Charles' lips. He glances up to catch Charles' eye; finds Charles watching him with a single arched eyebrow.

"This is what it took to convince you?" he says, sounding somewhat incredulous. Erik doesn't say anything, merely licks his lips, which seems to be enough, because Charles tilts their hips, Erik flinching at the contact, a lifetime of repression and denial shaping his instincts. He glances again to Charles' lips; finds himself wanting to kiss them--realizes then he probably can--but before he can move--before he can close the distance between them and capture Charles' bottom lip between his teeth, a passing shadow catches inside his peripheral vision, Erik drawing back; glancing to the window just in time to see something dark and shapeless strike against it, the resounding crash of contact startlingly loud.

Erik is moving before he's fully registered what's happened, panic surging in his chest. He blocks Charles' body with his, rolling smoothly over top of him to spring from the bed, feet landing softly on the plank flooring. In his mind's eye, he sees Hunter, faceless, clad in Nazis-grey. Erik's rifle comes immediately to his hand. He steps towards the door, glancing back only when he reaches it. Charles is sitting up in the middle of the bed, eyes wide with confused worry.

"Get down," Erik says, gesturing, even as he checks the barrel and cocks the rifle. He positions himself beside the door, keeping Charles blocked as he counts to three and then throws it open, stepping out onto the porch, rifle raised and ready, ignoring Charles' faint shout about not hurting anyone. Erik scans the front lawn, senses alert.

He finds nothing.

There is not a trace of metal anywhere as far as he can tell, and a quick scan of the surrounding wilderness reveals nothing to his eyes. The rain has washed away a good portion of the snow, the ground muddy and grey, the previous accumulation of tracks having vanished. There is nothing now to indicate anyone or anything has been here.

"Oh," Charles says, Erik spinning then, only to find Charles standing barefoot inside the doorway, hair sleep rumpled and entirely too distracting given the circumstances. His instinct is still to tackle the man; block him from harm.

"I told you to stay down," Erik says, trying then to shield Charles' body from view even as he contemplates how best to hustle Charles back into the cabin. Charles tuts and shakes his head.

"It's not Hunter," he says, catching Erik's eye. "There's no one out here." He gestures then with his chin, towards the porch beneath Erik's window, Erik following his gaze, finding then a young gull, neck broken, wings outstretched, slick with moisture.

Erik's stomach sinks. He lowers the rifle, knowing immediately what has happened.

"I don't normally leave my shutters open," he says, coming then to stand over the gull; one of last spring's hatchlings if he's not mistaken. "It must have flown into the glass." Its eyes are open, tiny beads frozen in terror. Erik cannot help seeing a crane.

He barely feels the hand settle on his shoulder.

"Come inside," Charles says. Erik glances over; sees then that Charles is wearing only his underclothes--but then, so too is Erik.

"Let me at least bury it," he says, Charles' gaze turning soft, as though Erik has said something incredible. Erik feels himself flush--thinks then of how close he came to kissing Charles; wonders if the gull's untimely death was meant as an omen.

If Charles hears the thought, he doesn't say anything, instead turning and retreating inside, leaving Erik to cross to the shed and retrieve a shovel, still barefoot, the rain soaking his clothes.


	15. Chapter 15

Charles is sitting on the trunk when Erik steps back inside, soaked through with rain, the gull buried and the pump and generator running. His legs are crossed beneath him, his expression strangely serene, as though he's been waiting patiently for Erik's return; as though this is something they do every day. The sight does little to settle the nervous fluttering of Erik's stomach.

"It's done," he says, for lack of anything better to say. Charles nods.

"That was very kind of you."

Erik blinks. He has no idea what to say to that, so he keeps his silence and steps further into the room.

Soft light from the unshuttered window filters into the cabin; the rain having let up, the sky growing bright despite the continued absence of sun. Charles is caught in it, looking strangely ethereal, perched on the trunk like he's still a bird, Erik his keeper. Erik takes a staggering step towards him.

"Here," Charles says, handing Erik over the same towel from yesterday. Erik accepts it awkwardly; uses it to wipe raindrops from his eyelashes. He ducks his head, toweling off his hair, the small towel unsuited to the task.

He needs more than a quick wipe off, his feet thick with mud, his clothes soaked through. He can't seem to stop shivering, aware of the cold now that he's standing inside the heat of the cabin, Charles having obviously gotten a fire started while he was out. He wipes his feet on the mat and then steps into the room.

"I should..." he says, gesturing to the bathroom. Charles nods, as though he expected no less. Erik's not sure what to make of that either, so he simply picks his way across the room, doing his best not to track mud all over the place.

He pauses at the dresser, pulling out two sets of clothes; one for Charles and one for him. He returns to the trunk and sets Charles' down beside him, lingering a moment inside the heat of Charles' proximity. Charles is still watching him, expression contemplative.

But Erik's not ready to address everything that has happened between them, even though Charles' presence is making him want to pick up where they left off. Instead he straightens and then retreats to the bathroom, waiting until the door is firmly shut behind him to release a shaky breath.

He can still feel the heat of Charles' body, pressed against his own; the warmth of Charles' breath ghosting across his lips. The memory is so vivid his knees buckle, Erik halfway to returning to the main room and drawing Charles into his arms. Very slowly, he forces himself to uncurl his fingers from around the doorknob, Erik turning then to face the sink.

He reaches for the faucet and starts the water running.

His reflection, when he hazards a glance in the mirror, is overlaid with the memory of Charles, pupils blown wide with lust, lips parted, head thrown back. Erik swallows; glances away and starts pulling off his wet clothes.

When he glances back to the mirror his reflection is his own, Erik staring past the cracked silver backing, trying to see himself as Charles does. It is impossible to reconcile, Charles having called him attractive--Charles wanting him--Erik unable to see anything but pale, gaunt flesh and protruding bone. Erik rubs a hand against his clavicle, warmth from his hand spreading throughout his core, chasing away the last of his chill. Livid bruising still wraps around his waist. He tears his gaze from the mirror and bends down to the sink, shutting off the tap.

If he wasn't already awake the startling cold of the water would do the job, Erik splashing his face and then running wet hands through his already soaked hair. When he's done, he lifts a foot to the sink and begins cleaning off the mud, his toes cramped with cold. It was foolish to go out without shoes, Erik cursing himself for an idiot as he cleans muck out from between his toes.

When he's clean and toweled off, he pulls on loose fitting trousers and a clean undershirt, checking both in the mirror--for what he doesn't know--before hanging the towel on the back of the door. He has to take three deep, steadying breaths before he can get the door open. He steps out into the main room with feet still bare and water dripping down his neck.

Charles is no longer sitting on the trunk. Erik finds him at the kitchen table, dressed, with a cup of newly brewed coffee sitting before him. A second cup sits across from his, the invitation clear. Erik crosses the room and takes his proffered seat, steam rising from his cup. Erik reaches for it and takes a long, slow sip. Charles makes very good coffee.

"Thank you," Charles says, hearing the thought. He sounds as tentative as Erik feels.

He's watching Erik over the brim of his cup, eyes scrutinizing, though Erik does not feel the need to flinch away from the expression, however much he feels heat creeping into his cheeks. Again the image of Charles, pressed against him, eyes hooded with lust comes to mind. Erik blinks, the image dispersing.

"I was thinking," Charles says, setting his cup down on the table, Erik half expecting a proposition. "At some point I ought to see about using a telephone." He glances around the cabin. "You don't appear to have one."

Erik blinks and then shakes his head. "Why do you need one?" The question comes out more accusatory than he means it to. Charles laughs.

"Well, to start, I can get access to funds. Travelling to New York is going to cost money. I should also make arrangements for our arrival, ensure my estate knows I'm alive and well."

Erik blinks again. "Estate?" he manages, forgetting all about this morning's indiscretion. Charles gives a self-deprecating laugh.

"Lawyers. I don't have any family. My father died when I was very young, and my mother recently. But I check in regularly with my lawyers to ensure my ex-step-father doesn't put in a claim on the estate. He tried several times while I was serving in Korea."

He shrugs then, reaching for his coffee and taking another sip. The box of muesli is sitting on the table, half empty now; empty bowl on Charles' right. Erik's stomach rumbles. He pauses then to fill Charles' discarded bowl; starts in on his breakfast.

It's then he realizes just how little he knows about this man.

He anticipated awkwardness; uncertainty and misstep after what happened between them. Instead he finds himself curious, leaning forward as he tries to make sense of Charles Xavier.

He doesn't know where to start. Charles grins.

"Yes, my family has money, though I intend to use all of it in helping mutantkind--and I do believe we will find more of us. And yes, I served in the Korean War. I was young and brash and looking for adventure. I didn't find it. Instead I found a lifetime of horror and a desire to never do violence again. You can perhaps understand why I'm so adamant about helping Hunter."

Erik means to protest, because they've had this argument before and he won't waiver on this point. If Hunter proves even a fraction of a risk, he will kill him. Charles is far more important than saving the life of one mutant, however few of them there are. Before he can say as much, Charles holds up a hand.

"I won't let either of us come to harm, Erik. You're just as important to me." He blushes when he says it, which is possibly the first time Erik has seen Charles blush. It calls to mind the flush that spread across his neck this morning; the way his eyes fluttered closed when their hips pressed together.

Erik ducks his head, takes a shuddering breath and then exhales. When he glances back up, Charles is his usual milky white.

"There's a telephone in the village, but I don't think it's a good idea," Erik says, a long-delayed response to Charles' earlier enquiry.

"Why ever not?" Charles sounds perfectly perplexed. Erik's expression grows stern.

"To start, it's not safe. But have you considered how I'm going to explain your presence? They know me, and they know I don't keep friends. How am I going to explain showing up in town with you at my side?"

"I'm sure we can..." Charles begins, but Erik's already shaking his head.

"The police were here, looking for Hunter, but who's to say you're not Hunter?"

Charles' eyes grow wide. "I'm not."

"I know that, but they don't. Strange man shows up on a remote island after someone's been murdered? Surely you see the problem."

Charles doesn't look half as contrite as Erik thinks he should look. Instead he looks almost annoyed, like Erik is missing the point entirely. The sight ought to enrage Erik, save that he can't seem to look at Charles anymore without remembering the heat of Charles' body, stretched against his own. It's very frustrating.

"What?" Erik still says, rather gruffly.

Charles arches an eyebrow. "Are you forgetting the part where I'm a telepath? I could run naked through the centre of town and no one would remember a thing."

This is where he should give a counter-point, except he's too busy picturing Charles naked; imagining trailing fingertips over the swell of Charles' backside and digging his thumbs into the sharp jut of Charles' hips. He can picture perfectly Charles' thighs, well-muscled and strong, wrapped around Erik's waist, the two of them moving in unison. It rather chases all rational thought from Erik's head.

He starts, realizing then that he's staring at Charles' lips again. Charles offers another raised eyebrow and a sly smile. Erik ducks his head and takes another sip of his coffee. It's grown lukewarm.

"We'll talk about the phone later," he says, wanting then to stand and flee the kitchen, save that neither are an option, not without drawing attention to the tenting of his trousers.

He casts frantically for a distraction.

"We should check your arm, and then I need to cut my hair." It's no longer dripping down his neck, but he can feel where it curls behind his ears, the length of it driving him crazy.

He's expecting the abrupt change of topic to end their conversation. He's not expecting Charles to adapt gracefully, saying, "I've been told I'm good with a pair of scissors, if you'd like."

Erik's head whips up, his shock clearly palpable, because Charles chuckles, eyes glinting mischievously. He offers a faint shrug, entirely too casual for the conversation--for everything that has passed between them. Erik spends several long minutes simply staring; trying to imagine what Charles is offering.

His first instinct is to refuse. He goes so far as to say, "I always cut my own," but nothing else comes out.

He doesn't tell Charles about his arrival in Auschwitz; about being led into a room and stripped of his clothes, examined like a horse gone to market. He doesn't explain how, after, his hair was shorn, the man who shaved it brisk and efficient, paying little heed to the dull blades or a tender scalp. He doesn't mention the tiny cuts the clippers left behind, or how one of those cuts festered, Erik left weak with fever, in danger of being sent to the gas chambers. He still has those scars.

He also doesn't mention how his mother, when he was a boy, used to cut his hair at the kitchen table with a pair of fabric shears, humming under her breath as she worked around his ears. Or how his sister would tease him when it was done, blunt mop of hair without form or function, simply tidy ends that stayed out of his eyes. His sister's hair was long; she wore it in braids over her ears.

The sound of Charles setting his coffee cup back down on the table is unusually loud, Erik startled from the memory.

"It's your call," he says, "though I'm more than happy to do it." He still sounds so very casual; so very intimate.

Erik swallows and to his surprise finds himself nodding.

Charles' answer is a touched smile, like Erik's trust is a gift, something to treasure always.

Charles stands then, pulling the chair he was sitting on into the centre of the main room, framed by the light from the still open window. Erik blinks, not realizing Charles meant now. He flounders for several moments before following Charles' lead, gait awkward as he crosses to the dresser where his first aid kit still rests. He retrieves his sharpest pair of scissors, handing them to Charles handle-first before moving into the bathroom to retrieve a comb. Their fingers brush when he hands it over.

It startles Erik enough that he doesn't notice having sat until Charles is draping a towel around his shoulders, fingers caressing the nape of his neck. He usually does this in the bathroom, bent over the sink, the lighting poor though adequate. It's never straight, but he does his best to keep it neat and tidy.

"When you do this yourself," Charles asks, "do you use your mutation?"

Erik's still trying to catch up with how he ended up here; how he let Charles talk him into this. His first instinct is to accuse Charles of having used his telepathy, but he knows that's not it. For however short a period of time he's known Charles, he does trust him. Charles, Erik thinks, is impossible not to trust.

"No," Erik answers, honestly. He's thought about it, but he doesn't particularly trust himself, his powers occasionally erratic, not well honed enough to manage a sharp blade at his neck. He tried once while shaving and earned a series of nicks for his trouble.

"Something to work on then," Charles says. He runs a comb through Erik's hair, Erik unprepared for the intimacy of the sensation. His skin erupts into gooseflesh, Erik shivering despite himself.

When he agreed to do this, he thought it would be like it was Auschwitz, quick and business-like, Erik gritting his teeth and enduring it until it was done. Or he thought it might be like his mother, soothing and yet dull, Erik fidgeting until he was set free.

It's nothing like that. It's Charles, running his fingers through Erik's hair, working out the tangles Erik's morning out in the rain have left behind. It's Charles, brushing against Erik's shoulders, body radiating heat, scent carrying to Erik's nose, transporting him back to their bed this morning; Charles curled against him, warm and soft and everything Erik has ever wanted.

Unbidden his eyes fall closed, Erik leaning into Charles' touch, comb and fingers working in harmony to set Erik's hair to rights. Charles doesn't say anything, which might normally strike Erik as unusual--even as a bird he seemed incapable of remaining silent--but he's too caught up in the feel of Charles playing with his hair to do anything other than sink into the sensation, losing himself in something he's never had.

It strikes him then that he can't remember the last time he allowed someone to touch him. Certainly not like this. He's starved for it, he realizes, wanting then to feel Charles' hands everywhere; to lay himself bare and let Charles touch, fingers gentle and soothing, erotic and yet comforting.

He wants it so bad he almost stops Charles before he starts; drags him back to bed.

"Okay?" Charles asks, shattering the thought. Erik still needs several seconds to process the question before he tentatively nods. Charles reaches for the scissors.

The sound of blade against blade should fill Erik with dread--apprehension at the very least--but he is too relaxed, perfectly content to give himself over to Charles' hands. Charles uses fingers as much as comb to straighten pieces of Erik's hair, clipping off the ends, the soft whisk-whisk of the scissors almost hypnotic against the warmth of Charles' presence. Erik could probably fall asleep, if he wasn't so incredibly aroused.

He wonders then when he made the decision to allow this; if there was ever any other decision he could have made.

"They shaved my head in the army," Charles says suddenly, voice soft and caressing, as though he's half afraid to break the stillness between them. "I was terrified it wouldn't grow back."

The image shouldn't prove comical--he's pictured it, after all, seen Charles clad in stripes, hair stripped away, eyes impossibly large above gaunt, hollow cheeks--and yet there is something in the way Charles says it, like he can't imagine a worse horror than losing his hair, that makes Erik laugh.

"Vanity, Charles?" he says. Charles moves around to Erik's front, Erik glancing up, vision half obscured by his eyelashes, but he doesn't miss Charles' shrug.

"Maybe a little. Ridiculous, isn't it?" He starts in on Erik's bangs.

Erik wants to shake his head, but he is trapped by Charles' hands. Instead he says, "No, it's not."

Charles pauses in his cutting, scissors hovering above Erik's forehead, just inside his peripheral vision. He seems to be contemplating Erik's statement, but he must find it acceptable, because he chuckles and begins cutting again.

"No," he says, "No, it's not."

Charles spends easily twice as long cutting Erik's hair as Erik might have spent, though Erik doesn't begrudge him it. At no point does he feel the need to break away, not even after his hair has dried, tiny cut ends floating rather than falling, ending up everywhere. He does grow perfectly still when Charles does around his ears, one of his longer scars crossing his hairline, clearly visible when Charles pulls down the shell of his ear. Charles doesn't say anything, but his cutting grows slower, precision and care making careful work of the edge, Erik left holding his breath, frozen in place until the scissors draw away.

Charles leans towards him then; blows hot air against the back of Erik's ear. Startled, Erik jumps.

"Easy," Charles says, dusting at his shoulder now. He squats down until he is level with the side of Erik's face, Erik half afraid to glance over; half afraid not to. In the end he continues to stare at the bathroom door, Charles scrutinizing his work. When he deems it acceptable, he stands and moves to the other side.

He cuts the second side a little faster, as though he's mastered the process and doesn't require the same attention to detail. As before, he blows against the back of Erik's ear when he's done, clearing the tiny bits of hair he's left behind. Erik remains still this time, though he does swallow heavily, still so trapped in wanting he can barely breathe.

He's beginning to think Charles planned this; that this is all some elaborate seduction plan. No one's ever thought Erik worthy of seducing before. At his side, Charles laughs.

"Maybe a little," he says, "but you did need a haircut." He stands from scrutinizing his second side, setting the scissors down on the trunk behind Erik's back; returning them to ruffle fingers through Erik's hair, dislodging stay strands of hair. "Come to think of it, so do I."

Erik glances up then, takes in the sight of Charles, looking flawless. Again he's struck with how he got here; the last few days of his life impossible to reconcile. Charles smiles down at him, Erik realizing belatedly that this is probably where he should offer to reciprocate, except that the last thing he wants to do is destroy Charles hair. He says as much, earning one of Charles' amused laughs.

"Well, yes, I suppose it might be best to wait for a professional," he says, reaching out then to slip the towel wrapped around Erik's shoulders free. He shakes it out into the floor, adding to the collection of hair spread around the chair. When he's done, he brings a free hand to Erik's shoulder, squeezing briefly before dusting at anything the towel failed to catch. His touch still ignites fire in Erik's veins. If the look on Charles' face is any indication, he knows it.

How Erik ever thought to hide from this man, he doesn't know.

"I suppose this is the moment of truth," Erik says when Charles steps back, allowing him to stand. Charles inclines his head. Erik huffs a laugh and then crosses to the bathroom.

The light, when he flicks the switch, flares briefly before settling, casting the bathroom in the same shades of red and green that always remind Erik of mornings--even though it is well approaching afternoon. He steps forward, eyeing his reflection critically, surprised by how nice a job Charles has done. Erik runs a hand through the front of it, a few stray pieces of hair falling into the sink. He bends then, holding his head above the sink as he ruffles his hair, getting rid of the last of it. When he comes back up, Charles is standing just behind his shoulder, watching Erik's reflection intently.

"It looks good," he says, though there is nothing boasting in his tone.

"It does," Erik agrees, though he needs to strip off his shirt and shake it out, maybe see about running a cloth over his face and neck.

Charles nods, obviously hearing the thought. He turns to offer Erik his privacy, pausing only to collect the broom and dustpan from behind the door, Erik halfway to protesting when Charles holds up a hand.

"Clean up, and then when you're done you can check my arm."

There is little Erik can do save nod; waiting for Charles to slip past the door, brushing against Erik's arm as he goes. Erik closes the door firmly behind him before turning back to the sink. He still doesn't recognize his reflection, though he doesn't look quite as haggard as he usually does, his hair neat and tidy, though perhaps longer than he usually wears it, his skin flushed a healthy shade of pink.


	16. Chapter 16

He takes longer than usual to strip off his things, shaking the hair out of his clothes and then running a cold, wet cloth over his neck and torso, his bruises starting to fade, no longer as livid as they were. When he's done, he runs a wet comb through his hair, hoping to get the last of it, and then fills the sink for a shave. He's surprised Charles didn't complain this morning.

Remembering this morning no longer fills him with shame, though he's not quite certain when that changed. He thinks perhaps it's simply Charles. Charles is everything good and right in this world, so for the life of him Erik can't reason how anything Charles wanted could possibly be wrong--and Charles has made it absolutely clear that he wants Erik. Erik's not used to being wanted; certainly not by someone he wants in return. It is a heady feeling that leaves him weak in the knees, his breath coming in ragged pants, his skin too hot to the touch.

He can no longer hear Charles moving about the other room, cleaning this morning's mess, so he shaves quickly and then rinses his face, running wet fingers through his hair--remembering then the feel of Charles' nails against his scalp. His hands come away clean, any last traces of cut hair washed away. He retrieves a fresh towel from the small shelf beside the washing machine and pats his face dry.

Charles, when he steps out into the main room, is again sitting on the trunk, his back pressed to the alcove wall, his knees drawn to his chest. He's staring out the window, soft, overcast light colouring his skin porcelain. Erik's sweater, the slate grey one that Charles seems to have adopted as his own, sits low on his shoulders, revealing the sharp jut of his collar bone. Erik freezes on the threshold, towel at the back of his head.

[ ](http://nekosmuse.com/crane/windowseatv3.jpg)

Unbidden, his gaze flickers to Charles' sock-clad feet, something clenching in his chest, Erik wanting this man with every fibre of his being. As though drawn to the thought, Charles turns, offering Erik a warm smile. Erik stares, transfixed.

He cannot seem to look away, an overwhelming surge of possessiveness buckling his knees. He takes a staggering step forward, remembering then the way Charles offered himself, unashamed, unconcerned for laws and conventions that probably no longer apply to them. He remembers, too, the feel of Charles' hands upon him; sliding through his hair or resting on his shoulder. Want spikes in his stomach, Erik overcome by it.

Charles expression lights up, becoming so inexplicably pleased that Erik's breath catches. Too late Erik realizes that he's made his decision; that Charles knows and is once again four steps ahead of him. Already Charles is slipping gracefully from the trunk. He crosses the room almost lazily, coming to rest just inside Erik's space.

"You're not alone," he says again, unsubtle reminder of their earlier conversation. He shifts forward until Erik can feel the heat radiating off of him.

"This is dangerous," Erik says, a final protest, though his words lack conviction, his decision long-since made. Charles smiles, bright as the sun, and then takes a final step forward, bringing them flush. Erik swallows against the urge to whimper.

He has absolutely no idea what to do with Charles now that he has him, but Charles seems to understand. He slips a hand around Erik's waist, pulling him forward until the space between them disappears.

"I can't tell you, Erik," he says, though he doesn't clarify what he means, instead lifting up onto the balls of his feet and ducking his head to press his face into Erik's neck. Erik tenses at the sensation, sparks of unfamiliar pleasure spreading through his core. He melts then, pressing into Charles, feeling the warmth of Charles' breath against the hollow of his throat. Charles nuzzles further against him, Erik momentarily flailing until his hands catch Charles' shoulders, gripping him hard and holding him fast.

Charles shifts, running his nose up Erik's throat and then around the side of his jaw, tracing the edge of Erik's ear, warm breath caressing his lobe. One of his hands threads the towel free from Erik's shoulder, tossing it in the general direction of the bed. Erik's entire body vibrates with tension. He can do little save cling to Charles; still not entirely certain this is real.

"I can't even tell you how incredible you are, Erik. How thrilled I am to have met you," Charles whispers, the words caressing his skin. Erik shivers. He presses closer.

Charles' hands shift, moving from where they're holding Erik's waist to the small of Erik's back, where he gently works Erik's shirt free from his pants. As soon as there is space he slides nimble fingers into Erik's shirt, the warmth of his hands startling. Erik's flesh erupts into gooseflesh. He bucks forward, feeling then Charles' erection, Charles no doubt feeling his own. This time Erik can't quite help the strangled groan that escapes his lips. He feels Charles smile against the shell of his ear.

"It's good, isn't it?" he says, voice low and seductive.

Erik closes his eyes, bottom lip catching between his teeth, breath coming hard and heavy through his nose. He takes a shuddering breath, trying to still the racing of his heart; letting go of his lip to pant through his mouth. He doesn't open his eyes, leaving them scrunched firmly shut. His nails dig into the flesh of Charles' shoulders, Erik clinging for dear life.

It strikes him then that he has no idea how he got to this point; how he went from living a life of solitude and seclusion to standing in the middle of his cabin, clinging to a man he's only just met. The thought is almost comical, Erik tempted to laugh, save that he's too busy concentrating on breathing to do anything save rock against Charles as Charles rocks against him. Charles' hands splay across his lower-back, flesh on flesh; his lips tracing down the side of Erik's neck.

"God," Erik hears himself say, though it sounds entirely too distant, as though someone else has spoken, never mind that he stopped believing in God a long time ago. Charles chuckles. He pauses midway down Erik's neck to open his mouth, hot wet heat replacing the tickling of Charles' lips. Erik's knees give way.

Charles catches him, though only just, the both of them staggering, breaking apart in the process. Charles draws back, Erik trying to follow, growling at the unwanted hand pressing into the centre of his chest. Charles laughs again.

"The bed, I think," he says, hand twisting, gathering Erik's shirt in his fist and tugging him forward. Erik goes willingly--in that moment he suspects he would follow Charles anywhere. He lets Charles lead him back to the bed, Charles spinning them, walking Erik back until Erik's knees hit the back of the mattress. Charles pushes so that Erik falls into the unmade covers. He follows a moment behind.

It is somewhat startling to blink and find Charles straddling his lap, the sight quite possibly the most erotic thing Erik has ever seen. He flounders a bit again until deciding Charles' hips are a good place for his hands. Charles smiles his approval.

"Anything I should know?" Charles asks, leaning in then, once again bringing their chest flush, his head bending down to press their foreheads together. Erik arches up, relishing the contact. It takes several seconds for the question to filter through; several more to understand what Charles means by it.

"I thought you already knew everything about me," Erik says, though it requires a good deal of effort and comes out more breathless than stern. Charles shakes his head.

"I was asking about your limits; your restrictions, but that's probably a question for later. For now I just want you to tell me if you don't like something."

He punctuates the statement with a brief kiss to Erik's lips--their first--Erik chasing the sensation when it slips away so that what was no doubt meant as a brief peck turns into a heated exchange.

[ ](http://nekosmuse.com/crane/smooch.jpg)

Kissing isn't something Erik's given much thought to over the years--isn't something he's particularly craved or wanted, even though he has startling vivid memories of watching a young couple kiss in the years following his liberation, feeling then something akin to longing. Kissing Charles, though, is something he never wants to stop doing.

Charles hands have come to the back of Erik's head, fingers threading through his still-damp hair. It's still long enough for him to get a good handful, Erik realizing then that this was what he wanted when Charles was cutting his hair.

His thighs hug Erik's, warmth radiating between them until a fine sheen of sweat breaks out across Erik's forehead. Charles kisses with as much determination and conviction as he seems to do everything, Erik breathless and light-headed from lack of oxygen, giddy from the contact. When Charles' tongue slides along his bottom lip, Erik immediately opens his mouth and lets Charles slip his tongue inside. He remains a passive partner, despite his desire to surge forward, take control of the kiss, even without knowing what he's doing. He wants to nip and suck and run his tongue over Charles' teeth. Instead he keeps his tongue mostly still, allowing Charles to guide their actions.

That doesn't stop him from groaning miserably when Charles smiles against his mouth and then pulls away. He tries to follow, but Charles evades him, lips pressing to the shell of Erik's ear.

"Anything you want, Erik," he says, punctuating the point by pressing down, bringing their groins into alignment, Erik thrusting up helplessly, mouth open to pant now that Charles' tongue is no longer sliding alongside his own. His grip on Charles' waist tightens.

It is impossible to verbalize all the things he wants to do--all the things he's imagined and read about and been witness to--so instead he thinks them, trusting Charles to pick up on the basics of it. Charles smiles again--Erik can feel it--tongue darting out to trace Erik's ear, ending at Erik's lobe, which he sucks into his mouth, teeth grazing lightly against the soft pad. Erik goes entirely slack, thoughts vanishing under the force of his arousal.

"Good?" Charles asks, relinquishing Erik's ear. Erik nods, somewhat enthusiastically. Charles chuckles and slides his hands down the length of Erik's spine, fingers walking over each knot until he reaches the hem of Erik's shirt. He gives a tug. Erik freezes.

Immediately Charles stops, no doubt sensing Erik's impending panic. He releases Erik's hem, the shirt falling back down to cover the small of Erik's back, cutting off the draft chilling Erik's skin. He still shivers, surging forward so that he can bury his face in the side of Charles' neck. He should have known he was incapable of this, the thought of removing his shirt, of letting Charles see his scars--his tattoo--paralysing. As if in answer to the thought, Charles spreads his hands across Erik's lower back, over the shirt. He rubs gently, turning to nuzzle his nose in Erik's hair. Erik doesn't miss his unsteady inhale.

"It's fine," Charles says. "You can leave it on."

Erik grits his teeth at that, because it's ridiculous and he shouldn't have to and it's not as if Charles doesn't _know_. Charles, apparently, knows everything about him. Still he nods into Charles' neck, somewhat grateful, because he is still a man with far more demons than anyone has a right to.

He stays pressed against Charles' neck until the moment stretches into awkwardness, Erik halfway to pulling away; to offering an apology for everything he's done to screw this up. Instead he finds himself turning into Charles' skin; pressing his lips to the fluttering of Charles' pulse point, encouraged when Charles turns into the touch, moaning softly as his legs squeeze around Erik's thighs.

It reignites the fire Erik thought in danger of extinguishing, Erik made bold by Charles' reaction; bold enough that he kisses a path up Charles' neck, following the same path to Charles' ear that Charles took to his.

Charles lets out a faint _Oh_ that makes Erik want to repeat whatever it is he's done to earn it. He tries nipping at Charles' ear again, but Charles only moans this time, loud and wanton, which is almost as good, so Erik does it again.

And this, this is somehow better; Erik feeling marginally less anxious now that he has some control. Charles must catch that thought, because he pulls back slightly, Erik not quite capable of following; forced then to glance up and catch Charles' eye. Charles offers a smug smile.

"Come on then," he says, tugging at Erik's shoulder as he climbs off Erik's lap, Erik halfway to protesting before he realizes what Charles is doing. It's still not until he has Charles stretched out across the mattress, Erik squeezed firm between his legs, that he stops panicking, the feel of Charles beneath him intoxicating and terrifying. Erik experiments with a slight tilt of his hips.

It feels surprisingly good, so much so that Erik does it again, seeing then the image from Charles' fantasy; the two of them sweaty and naked, rutting against one another until they're spent. He wants that, he realizes; wants to feel Charles naked beneath him, to rub against him until he falls apart, taking Charles with him.

Beneath him, Charles smiles. He still has a hand wrapped around Erik's shoulder. He uses it now to push Erik back, just enough so that he can lift himself up and pull his borrowed sweater over his head. It leaves him bare chested, Erik momentarily caught by the sight. Charles shifts against him, Erik's gaze drawn to the bandage still tied around his arm. Charles notices his distraction.

"We'll change it after." He pushes up then to nip at Erik's lips. "It's fine," he says when he pulls back. Erik nods and glances back to Charles' chest.

He's seen men without shirts, a fair number of them, though only a handful in the flush of health, Erik having never had the opportunity to just look. He looks now, staring, completely caught by the milky-white of Charles' skin; by the faint dusting of hair trailing down his stomach to disappear beneath his trousers. Charles' hands settle on his button, slowly unfastening it before tugging at his zipper. Erik's throat runs dry.

He's only given a tantalizing glimpse before Charles is reaching for him, thoroughly distracting Erik as he deftly unfastens Erik's trousers. Erik has his hands braced on either side of Charles' hips, keeping his body half elevated to allow Charles the room to work. His arms shake now, threatening collapse, Erik not entirely certain he can do this. A different kind of panic wells in his chest.

But Charles senses that, too, because as soon as he's gotten Erik's pants unfastened, he nudges against Erik's shoulder, Erik taking the hint and climbing over Charles' hip to lie on his side, feeling far more secure with his body against the mattress. Charles follows a moment behind, slipping neatly against Erik's front, an exact mirror of their position this morning. It feels almost as if they've come full circle.

"There is a nice symmetry to it," Charles says, laughter in his voice. He sounds entirely too pleased with himself and yet Erik can't bring himself to chastise.

He still means to offer a sarcastic remark, but Charles chooses then to align their hips, bare hint of flesh enough to distract Erik entirely. He's still tucked into his trousers--as is Charles--but he can feel Charles' heat, never mind that his hands have wandered to the bare flesh of Charles' chest. Erik gives an experimental thrust forward, even as he trails fingertips over Charles' bare shoulders.

"Hold on," Charles says, smiling. He reaches for Erik then, nimble fingers slipping into Erik's pants. Erik jumps at the first brush of contact. His entire body goes slack the second Charles' fingers slide against him; his eyes falling shut and his mouth falling open when Charles' fingers wrap around him.

He comes dangerously close to coming.

Charles isn't tentative. He pulls Erik free with stark efficiency, pausing to do the same with himself. Erik opens his eyes then to glance between them, the sight of Charles' cock alongside his own stealing his breath. He has seen very few erect penises before, and none of them against his own--and none of them like Charles'; long and thin and uncircumcised. Erik is nearly overwhelmed by the urge to touch.

"Be my guest," Charles says, shifting forward then so that their cocks brush, Erik cursing at the sensation, hips immediately pistoning, chasing that same friction a second and then third time.

He can tell Charles is trying to rein him in, but Erik's past the point of listening, so incredible is the feel of Charles' cock slipping against his own. He thrusts again, the heat of it, the hardness of it making him dizzy with want.

He hears Charles curse, as though Charles has given up trying--or perhaps he's reached a point of no return--Erik's eyes crossing when Charles presses them tighter, hand wrapping around them both, not quite reaching, but the added pressure is more than good.

"Erik," Charles grits, Erik opening his eyes--he can't remember closing them--to find Charles' head tip backed, his eyes squeezed shut and his lip caught between his teeth. The sight is breathtaking.

Erik means to ask him what he wants--what he needs--but he's having a hard enough time remembering to breathe, let alone talk, so instead he surges forward, finds the fluttering point of Charles' neck and attaches his lips. Charles groans, an image flicking across Erik's consciousness--not his own--two hands moving in unison over their joined cocks.

Erik immediately takes the hint.

Charles' hand alone was good, but this is a thousand times better, the shared warmth--the shared movement--everything Erik has ever wanted and then some. He thinks back to all the times he's caved to his desire--all the times he's touched himself--and finds nothing to compare. Every fantasy he's had pales in comparison to this. The feel of Charles against him, Charles' fingers sliding against his own, Charles' breath warm against his temple, Charles neck flushed beneath his mouth; it's all too much-- _too soon, too soon_ \--pressure building in the base of Erik's spine, tingling across his groin, cock hardening, balls drawing tight until there is nothing left but the spectacular crash. Erik falls over, every argument he's ever had with himself against doing exactly this vanishing inside the heat of his orgasm.

Several long minutes pass before Erik realizes Charles has followed him, the space between them sticky with semen. Erik's face is still pressed into Charles' neck, his leg having slid between Charles' thighs, toe sliding along the back of Charles' calf. He spends several minutes panting, pink triangles floating behind his eyelids, the urge to draw back, to flee, nipping at his awareness. Charles shifts then, hand still curled around their combined cocks slipping free, the loss so great Erik aches with it. It chases away the remainder of his fear; Erik left only with longing, Charles everything he has spent a lifetime searching for.

Charles draws back to retrieve Erik's discarded towel from somewhere down the bed. He offers Erik a smile and an arched eyebrow when he catches Erik watching, and then neatly slips the towel between them to clean their shared mess. There is something in his expression; something fond and happy and decidedly surprised, as though Erik has done something wonderful; has astounded him. The sight half reminds Erik of the crane, though he knows he no doubt has something similar painted across his own features. Certainly he feels lighter than he has in years, pink triangles vanishing, along with the impending threat of Hunter, the dead gull and everything that might come between them. For a moment, there is only Charles, still nestled against him, Erik content to shift closer.


	17. Chapter 17

Erik wakes tangled in the scent of Charles, something close to panic sticking in his throat. He didn't mean to sleep; didn't think it was possible, but there was something in the hush of Charles' breathing that lulled him under. At least he's not the only one, Charles curled at his side, chest rising and falling steadily, his eyes fluttering in his sleep. Erik stares for several long minutes before slipping from the bed, careful not to disturb Charles' rest.

He pulls on his coat in the thin light of the cabin, tiptoeing across creaking floorboards to slip out the door, Erik surprised to find the day's gotten away from them, the sun close to setting. He stands on the porch and breathes deep the misty air, staring across his lawn.

The landscape is bleak, grey; utterly depressing. This morning's rain has washed away the snow, leaving behind a field of mud. It's obliterated any tracks that might have existed, including Charles' from when he was a crane. The sky is still overcast, the threat of more precipitation looming on the horizon. The approach of twilight washes out the contrast between green and grey, the hillside painted in monotone.

It strikes him then that he's slept through an entire day, and yet there is still no sign of Hunter. He doesn't know what he's waiting for--why he's waiting at all--Erik boiling over with frustration. He's not used to feeling so helpless; hasn't let anyone dictate his actions since he was a kid.

He reaches out then with his powers, but there's not a hint of metal anywhere except behind him, Erik turning in time to watch the door swing open, Charles stepping out onto the porch. His steps are hesitant, as though Erik is a deer, easily startled. Erik huffs a laugh, feeling some of his tension dissipate. Charles smiles, looking oddly relieved. He comes to stand at Erik's side.

"It's beautiful," he says, nodding towards the treeline, barely seen in the fading light.

Erik's stomach flutters nervously, though it is not the same nervousness that saw him climb from their shared bed and retreat outside. He settles more firmly against Charles' side.

"Sorry, I just needed..." is as far as he gets before Charles interrupts.

"I know."

He leans towards Erik then, allowing their shoulders to brush. It sets off sparks in Erik's chest, making his limbs tingle with pleasure. He cannot remember anyone ever touching him so casually--he cannot remember ever craving such a thing. Now he can't imagine living without it.

All too soon Charles shifts away, cold air rushing in to fill his void. Erik shivers against the sensation. He turns to stare out across the hillside.

"You should see it in summer," he says in answer to Charles' earlier statement. Charles glances over, briefly catching Erik's eye. His expression turns contemplative.

"You like it here," he says, not a question. Erik considers.

He's not entirely sure like is the appropriate word. It's more that this is the first place he's found that remotely resembles a home. Certainly he's stayed here for longer than he's stayed anywhere. He's built a life here, for all his talk of leaving. His cabin, Azazel's boat, the town, even Raven; he is comfortable with them.

"It's beautiful," Erik decides on saying, because he's not sure how to put that into words and, besides, he suspects Charles already knows. Still, he shrugs, dismissive.

It doesn't stop Charles from turning completely to face him, soft smile flitting across his face. He slides a little closer to Erik, until his earlier chill is replaced by the heat of desire, something that still makes Erik want to duck his head and flee.

"We could stay," Charles says, and he sounds so utterly serious that Erik is momentarily too stunned to respond. He considers then the possibility of staying; of coming home to Charles each day, of the life they could build.

"No," he says. "We'll go to New York."

Charles beams at him. It makes Erik want to close the distance between them, to draw Charles into his arms and keep him close. Charles must gather something of that, because he steps forward, expression growing sly. Erik steps back.

"Someone might..." he says, glancing over his shoulder, even though they are in the middle of nowhere, the only other person who might oversee Hunter, and Erik means to kill him anyway. That doesn't stop dread from coiling in his stomach, Erik terrified of what might happen. Even now, staring at Charles, hair rumpled, still wearing Erik's marks, Erik cannot help but see Charles wearing a pink triangle; hair shorn and cheeks hollow.

Charles offers a sympathetic smile. "You do realize I'd know if anyone was watching, and if they were, and they objected, I could always erase the memory."

It still thrills him as much as it terrifies him, the things Charles is capable of. He shakes his head.

"We still shouldn't take the chance," he says, picturing then all the ways that this could go wrong; all the ways Charles could still come to harm.

Hunter is the least of it, but Charles raises a very good point.

"Why can't you use your telepathy to find him?" he asks, trusting Charles to know who he's talking about. "Isn't that how you found him the first time?"

It would make things so much easier. Charles looks marginally disappointed by the question.

"I can, so long as he isn't actively using his mutation. That's how I managed it the first time. I'm not exactly sure how it works, but part of the stealth element of his mutation allows him to evade telepathy. If he weren't actively hunting us, I could find him easily. As it stands, I only catch hints of him, and then only when he's near."

He steps into Erik's space then, ignoring the way Erik tenses, though Erik settles a moment later.

"I promise you, we will find him. He's not going anywhere so long as we're here."

It's not good enough. "If he's hunting us, and he knows we're here, why hasn't he done anything?"

Charles shakes his head. "I don't know. To be honest, I think he's just waiting."

 _Waiting for what_ , Erik wants to ask, though he knows Charles is just as lost--just as frustrated--as he is. Hunter's absence feels like the calm before the storm.

Erik forces himself to relax, fists uncoiling as he steps back, taking a final breath of the damp twilight air.

"We should go in," he says, gesturing over Charles' shoulder. Charles nods and leads them inside.

The bed is still unmade from their earlier activities--from this morning if Erik is honest--his gaze drawn immediately there, the image of Charles flushed and panting against him so vivid Erik staggers. It brings him into Charles' back, Charles having stopped. He glances over his shoulder to offer Erik a raised eyebrow. Erik flushes.

"We should eat," he says, meaning supper, because they've skipped lunch and all Erik's had was a measly bowl of muesli for breakfast. Charles nods.

"I'll cook," he says, already toeing off his borrowed boots. He pads into the kitchen on sock-clad feet, Erik once again contemplating what it would mean to stay; to make a life here.

It is not unappealing.

He removes his boots and then watches Charles root through his cupboards until lines of defeat become obvious in the slope of his shoulders. Erik chuckles then, moving into the kitchen. Charles turns to meet his eye.

"I don't actually know what to do with lutefisk," he says, sounding apologetic. Erik grins.

"I'll show you," he says, guiding Charles then through its preparation.

The meal is sparse, for all of Erik's teaching, and after they've eaten and cleaned up, Erik fills several pots with water and sets them on the stove. He's been putting this off, not wanting to bathe in front of the crane or Charles, but he's fast approaching the point of growing offensive, especially after this afternoon, so he heads outside to retrieve the wash basin.

Charles is watching him when Erik comes back in, soft smile tugging at his lips. He's claimed his place on the bed, legs folded beneath him. Erik feels a little of his nervousness return; spends several minutes trying to do the impossible, but the basin doesn't fit inside the bathroom, not if he hopes to get the door closed.

"Here," Charles says, rising smoothly from the bed and crossing to Erik's trunk. Erik is struck then by the familiar way in which he opens it, as though he's grown as comfortable with Erik's things as he has with Erik. He comes away with several blankets that he carries to Erik's side, Erik immediately catching his intentions, relief surging in his chest even as he colours with embarrassment.

"I don't need..." he says, ridiculous that he can't bring himself to bathe in Charles' presence when he's had Charles cock in his hand.

"Who said it was for you? Maybe I don't want the distraction," Charles says, hint of cheek, but it's enough to appease Erik's pride. He nods and then lets Charles help him hang the blankets, using Erik's drying racks and several clothing pins to keep them in place.

Charles retreats back to the bed, Erik filling the basin and then disappearing into the blanket enclosure. He undresses quickly, still feeling immensely conspicuous, despite having spent a large portion of his life bathing in rooms full of strangers. He glances briefly to his tattoo, still unseen by Charles, running his thumb across the numbers, surprised--as he is every time--that he can't feel each beneath the pad of his thumb. He hates those numbers more in this moment that he ever has.

The water isn't quite as warm as he'd like, but Erik relishes it, letting it chase heat back into his limbs and ease some of his tension. He doesn't linger, though he does wash with exaggerated care so as to make as little noise as possible. The sloshing of the water against the sides of the basin still sounds obscenely loud against the impossible stillness of the cabin. He spares no wasted motion, rinsing himself off and then soaping his hair, running soak-slick hands across his body.

His ribs no longer hurt--not like before--but the bruising is still tender, Erik taking extra care around them. He takes care to wash between his legs, too, flushing when he realizes why he's doing it.

When he's as clean as he can get, he rinses, the water a murky grey--though he will gladly boil more if Charles wants a bath. He half stands, half crouches then, remaining hidden by the blankets as he reaches for his towel. Erik dries quickly and then pulls a shirt over his head.

It's only then that he stands, his tattoo safely hidden and his lower half obscured by the blankets. He glances over and finds Charles nestled in the centre of the bed, familiar book in hand. Erik flushes then; remembers reading to the crane, glad only that Charles has chosen to pick up _Frankenstein_ and not gone rooting through Erik's collection.

Erik slips on pants and then clears his throat.

"If you want, I can boil more water," he says when Charles glances over. Charles offers a bright smile.

"That would be nice," he answers, setting the book aside and climbing from the bed.

Erik does his best to ignore Charles' soft expression, lifting the basin and carrying it out the door.

Outside, the dark is far-reaching, the sky covered over in thick clouds, the air sharp with frost. He feels it acutely in the damp of his hair. Erik inhales sharply, the scent of coming snow filling his lungs. The weather is temperamental this time of year. Yesterday brought rain; tomorrow will bring snow. He spares the treeline a single glance--still no Hunter--dumps the basin and then heads back inside.

To Erik's surprise, Charles has pulled down the blankets; they sit refolded on Erik's trunk. He does his best to ignore them, drawing Charles a bath while Charles borrows one of Erik's razors to shave.

When he's done, he strips shamelessly, taking the time to fold his clothes and set them on the stove-side chair before stepping into the basin. The sight is so shocking it takes Erik several seconds of staring before he gathers his wits enough to turn his back. He has no idea what to do with himself. It's too dark for chopping.

"I was thinking I could teach you how to block my telepathy," Charles says, as though this is a perfectly ordinary conversation; as though he isn't naked and kneeling hip deep in water. Erik spins, forgetting himself in his shock. He stares at Charles now, pale skin beaded with water, Erik following a single drop as it travels down Charles' chest and stomach, disappearing into the dark patch between Charles' legs.

"What?" he manages, tearing his gaze away, Charles looking far too amused when Erik glances up to catch his eye.

"You've thought it," Charles says, though he doesn't sound in the least upset.

Erik still shakes his head. It's hard to have this conversation when he's still watching Charles, Charles running soapy fingers through his hair, body flushed from the heat of the water. Erik stares, hypnotized as Charles ducks his head to rinse, eyes falling shut, expression of bliss settling over his features. Charles wipes soap from his eyes and then reaches for the dressing on his arm.

"There is also always the chance we may come across another telepath; one not quite as friendly."

There is no mistaking the innuendo in that statement, though Charles still lifts an eyebrow, just in case Erik's missed it. Erik flushes even as he considers; wonders then what might have happened had Hunter been a telepath. It rather decides it, Erik turning and crossing to the bed. He perches on the edge, openly staring at Charles now. Charles smiles, like he's won some kind of personal victory.

"Fine, teach me," Erik says. Charles' smile grows smug.

"I have a condition, of course." He's stopped washing; is kneeling now in the basin, staring intently at Erik, like they're having a conversation over a chess board or a cup of tea.

"I won't block you," Erik says, realizing then that he means it. He hasn't even known Charles a week, and most of that time Charles was a bird, but already he trusts Charles more than he's trusted anyone, and that includes himself. Charles shakes his head.

"No, no, feel free to keep me out if you'd like. What I want is for you to take me into town tomorrow so that I can make a telephone call."

Erik can't help but laugh at that, Charles relentless. He nods, though the decision isn't really his--has never been--Charles free to come and go as he pleases. Charles offers a brilliant smile and then, to Erik's surprise, stands, water sliding off his body, all of Erik's comfort vanishing, Erik helpless to do anything but stare.

Charles steps gingerly out of the basin, looking somehow graceful despite having just bathed in a tiny metal wash tub on the floor. He reaches for his towel, drying his face and hair before running it over his body. Erik is rather breathless by the time he's dry enough to slip into trousers. He crosses to the dresser to retrieve the first aid kit and then comes to sit at Erik's side.

"I imagine you already have some ability through your mutation," he says, Erik having already forgotten what they were talking about. It's hard to concentrate with Charles shirtless, Erik flashing back to this morning; to the feel of Charles beside him.

Erik wants so desperately to touch.

Instead he gingerly takes the first aid kit and begins pulling out gauze and batting. Charles' arm is starting to scab over again, but a tiny thread of blood still mars the white of his skin. Erik uses some of the batting to wipe it away.

"I think you should be able to use your mutation to completely block any kind of telepathic interference," Charles continues, as though oblivious to Erik's distraction--though Erik highly doubts that's the case.

He sits perfectly still, allowing Erik to re-bandage his arm, only turning when Erik is done, crossing his legs beneath him and then encouraging Erik to do the same until they are sitting face to face, an exact mirror of how they sat while Erik took apart the watch.

"It's fascinating, really, what you can do. You have a remarkable gift, Erik."

Charles has leaned forward, so close Erik can practically taste the soap he's just used. He sounds so completely ecstatic, like Erik's mutation is the most amazing thing in the universe. It's hard not to preen under that attention--it's hard not to see his mutation as something other than a curse, Erik not used to seeing its potential; its wonder.

"If I'm right, then your mutation allows you to control electromagnetic fields. You should be able to use this to dampen or even counter any kind of telepathic interference, but it's more than that, Erik." He's squeezing Erik's hands now, looking decidedly excited. "You have one of the strongest wills I've ever encountered. That alone should allow you to block a telepath."

It's hard to focus entirely on Charles' words, even though Erik can hear their importance, Charles too close, warmth radiating off of him in waves. He's holding Erik's hands now, thumb caressing the back of Erik's knuckles. They're sitting in the centre of Erik's bed, the scent of _them_ rising up around them, Erik wanting nothing more than to lean forward and capture Charles' lips; press him back into the covers. It takes tremendous effort to focus on what Charles is saying.

"I'm going to try to take control of you again, like we did that first night when I demonstrated my abilities. I want you to simply extend all your energies into stopping me. Push me back; block me out. Once you master it once, you'll know what to look for in the future; you can use it to build a shield, keep me from getting in in the first place."

It occurs to Erik then, as he watches his hand raise unbidden before him, that Charles is showing a tremendous amount of trust. Erik's not sure anyone has ever extended him so much trust. The knowledge is humbling. He does as Charles asks, pushes against the odd sensation of having someone else in his head; pushing until his hand succumbs to gravity, falling back into his lap. He pushes again, shield springing up around his mind, a tightly woven helmet that settles neatly against his scalp. Across the bed, seeming now impossibly far away, Charles' eyes grow wide. He shakes his head and then speaks.

"Congratulations, Erik; you've just blocked me. I honestly didn't expect you to manage it that quickly. You're stronger than I thought."

Pride wars with guilt, Erik immediately dropping the shield, Charles's presence surging forward, so close that Erik cannot help but move physically into him, coming to rest with their foreheads pressed together. He feels a tentative hand settle on his shoulder.

"I can't say that was particularly pleasant," Erik says. Charles lets out a huff of air; it ghosts across Erik's lips.

"No, no it wasn't."

Erik nods and then pulls back, torn between wanting to move into Charles' space and wanting to retreat into himself. He can't remember ever feeling so connected to someone, the sensation as thrilling as it is terrifying. Charles seems to understand, because his mental presence retreats, not enough to disappear entirely, but enough so that Erik no longer feels like drowning. He offers a soft smile.

"You get the basin, and I'll tidy up here," he says, gesturing to the first aid kit.

Erik nods, swallowing against the hollow emptiness of having Charles draw away. Still, he climbs from the bed; sets to work emptying the wash basin and shutting down the cabin. When he comes back inside, Charles is curled on his side of the bed, still shirtless, Erik's dressing secure against his arm. The hurricane lamp is lit, haloing the bed in warm yellow light, and new wood pops inside the stove. Erik swallows again, unaccountably nervous as he climbs in behind Charles, Charles immediately reaching for him, though it is only to draw Erik's arm around his waist; pull him close.

Erik burrows against him, relishing in his heat; his nearness.


	18. Chapter 18

Erik comes awake, skin damp with sweat, heart racing, the last vestiges of his nightmare still lingering in the room. He struggles to sit, flailing against the pressure on his chest, too late realizing it's only Charles.

Charles is leaning over him, holding Erik's arms across his chest, his eyes wide. He looks panicked, mottled red patch spreading across his cheek where Erik has accidentally struck him. Erik immediately settles, horror warring with shame even as he tries to sort out what has happened. He tries to focus on the movement of Charles' lips, the ringing in his ears eventually subsiding, Charles' voice filtering through.

"Erik," Charles says, something like tentative relief creeping across his face. Erik sinks back into the pillow, the weight on his chest vanishing. He runs a hand over his forehead, palm coming away moist.

"What happened?" he asks, his last memory curling next to Charles, warm and secure. His thoughts then were pleasant.

"You were screaming in your sleep," Charles says, sounding professional and detached. Erik swallows against the ache in his throat. Colour floods his already flushed cheeks.

"I'm sorry," he says, registering then the mark on Charles' cheek. He sits up then, Charles allowing him, Erik bringing a tentative hand up to brush against the blooming bruise. Charles doesn't flinch.

"Oh god, I'm so sorry," he says again, and then, "I haven't had a nightmare since I found you."

It sounds so strange to say that now, but the memory of finding Charles when he was still a crane, soft white feathers fanned across the snow, blood pooling beneath his wing, is still entirely too vivid. He's slept peacefully since that first night; his dreams entirely absent.

"It's my telepathy," Charles says, leaning into Erik's touch, the open display of trust doing wonders to alleviate Erik's guilt. "I don't actually have control of it, but it tends to dampen the dreams of those I'm close to. I'm not entirely sure why, or even how to prevent it from happening."

Erik lets his hand fall to the side, glancing then over Charles' shoulder, registering the absence of light, the sun not yet above the horizon. There is something in the air, though, a still hint of frost that says morning isn't far off. Erik glances back over to capture Charles' gaze.

"What happened last night?" he asks. He can remember the dream now, one of the many he's cycled through since leaving the camps. It is not a particularly pleasant one, and one that always sees him wake screaming.

Charles settles back so that he is sitting propped against the pillows. His expression is pinched.

"You were blocking me in your sleep last night."

Erik blanches. "I guess you shouldn't have taught me that."

Charles doesn't answer; he's wearing lines that didn't exist last night, Erik unused to seeing him in this light, the cabin lit entirely by the last dying embers of the stove. Charles wears his worry openly. It is an alarming thing to see. Erik turns until they are sitting face to face, realizing then that Charles still isn't wearing a shirt.

"Tell me," he says, because it's clear that Charles is keeping something from him. Charles' expression softens.

"I'm sorry," he says, reaching out then, taking one of Erik's hands in his own and pulling it forward. "I hadn't noticed, but before I taught you to block me, you were already doing a very good job of it. There are a number of your memories I haven't had access to. I'm afraid I was ill prepared for your dream when your shields fell. I also realize I probably shouldn't have pushed this." He gestures between them then, but Erik's already shaking his head. He's not going to let Charles take this back; not now. It's the only thing Erik has that's worth keeping.

"Bit late for that now, anyway," Charles says, the lines around his face disappearing somewhat with his smile. "I'm afraid you're stuck with me."

Erik feels something loosen in his chest. "I can live with that," he manages, telling himself the hoarseness in his voice is from his earlier screaming and not the surge of emotion threatening to close his throat. He still swallows heavily. Charles squeezes his hand.

Part of him wants nothing more than to pull Charles close; to kiss away the mark he's left behind, guilt still coiling in his chest. But Charles chooses then to shiver; the fire having gone out, the sharp bite of frost catching in his breath. It paints the air in tiny puffs of white. Erik reaches for the covers, pulling at them until Charles is wrapped in majority of them. Charles offers a warm smile, though Erik can't help but notice the lines around his eyes, not vanquished by their conversation. He slips from the bed, body protesting the sudden movement.

The floor is colder than he was expecting.

"That's the worst one," he says of the dream, coming to stand next to the stove. The glowing bed of embers makes it easy to get a fire started, Erik working with quick efficiency, eager to get back into bed; back to Charles. He still waits until one of the bigger logs lights before returning to Charles' side; slipping beneath the covers to draw him near, a bid to share heat. "I'm sorry you had to experience it."

Charles shakes his head; nestles a little closer, hand coming to rest on Erik's breast-bone. "I should be the one telling you that. I had an idea, glimpses, and of course what I'd heard or read, but..."

"No one should have to experience that first hand," Erik interrupts. It's a plea to end the conversation, because he doesn't want Charles to have those memories--is relieved to learn he's kept the worst of them back. Charles nods; leans in then and tucks his head beneath Erik's chin.

He's still shivering.

They don't linger long, the cabin slowly filling with warmth, light creeping in to replace the shadows until the entire cabin is painted in pale blue morning sunlight. Eventually, Charles draws away. Erik mourns his loss, watching with something close to longing as Charles slips from the bed and into his shirt, his bruise seeming even more stark now that he's no longer nestled at Erik's side.

"You still want to find a telephone today," Erik says, watching Charles root through Erik's kitchen, coming away with the last of the muesli.

"And we need more," Charles says, shaking the box.

It's strange to climb from the bed this time, Erik no longer preoccupied by starting a fire or chasing off the remnants of a his dream. He stretches against sore muscles, tense from struggling against his dream. He has to physically push aside a wave of memories, newly surfaced with the dream. He crosses to the door, catching Charles' eye.

"I'll be a minute," he says, Charles nodding, already in the middle of setting the table, like he knows Erik's needed these last few minutes; like he's purposely giving Erik some space.

Erik steps outside into the soft light of purple pre-dawn.

It's snowed during the night, a thick blanket that coats the lawn, grey muck replaced by endless white. Erik pauses on his porch, scanning the hillside, the sun just now peeking over the horizon, the world strangely crisp, coloured through in shades of blue, as still as it is silent. Erik pauses long enough to inhale a lungful of air, exhaling in a rush, breath misting the air. He feels strangely displaced.

There is routine to follow, though, Erik's body familiar with it, even when his mind is still struggling to catch up with the changes in his life. He steps down off the porch, snow crunching beneath his feet, though he pays it little heed, crossing around to the generator to start it running, and then to the pump to switch it on. He scans the ground as he goes, but the snow is newly fallen, not a single track marring its surface.

He follows the line of his footprints back to the cabin, scans again with senses and power, only heading inside when he's sure there is nothing.

Charles is in the process of setting a kettle on the stovetop. He turns to offer a smile. Erik finds the sight oddly centering.

"It's snowed," he says, stamping his feet as if to emphasize the point, bits of ice and slush falling off to pool on the mat inside his door. He takes his boots off where he's standing, despite the awkwardness, not wanting to track snow into the house.

He meets Charles at the kitchen table.

"If we're going to go into town, we should go this morning," he says, something scratching between his shoulder blades, Erik realizing then that he's tired of waiting; tired of constantly looking over his shoulder, searching for something that's never there.

It seems Charles could only distract him for so long.

"And here I was hoping it would be longer," Charles says, reaching out with his foot then, letting it slide along the underside of Erik's, his expression apologetic.

"Is he even still out there?" Erik asks, because it was one thing when he _knew_ Hunter was there, but for all Erik knows he's already left; given up and gone home to wherever it is Charles found him.

Charles traces his big toe up to Erik's ankle, the sensation comforting; intimate. It settles some of Erik's anger, though he's still tense with apprehension. Across the table, Charles is wearing one of Erik's undershirts, collar stretched to reveal the pale expanse of his neck. It makes Erik want to stare at the spot where his neck meets his shoulder, but Erik can't seem to tear his gaze from the quickly forming bruise on Charles' cheek. He's never hated himself more than he does in that moment.

"I don't think he was expecting you," Charles eventually says. He's leaned forward across the table, resting on his elbows, hands gesturing as he speaks. "I think when he confirmed you were a mutant, it changed his plans, and I'm not sure he had a backup in place. I don't think he was, or probably is, prepared to take us both on at the same time."

Charles' foot recedes then, Erik fighting the instinct to chase it. He watches intently as Charles stands and crosses to the stove, using a mitt to retrieve the kettle, newly boiled. It's strange, having someone else make coffee, but Erik remains where he is, Charles filling the percolator and starting the coffee brewing; then pouring them two cups and returning to the table.

They don't linger long over breakfast, Erik clearing their plates while Charles takes his turn in the bathroom. When he's done, Erik slides in to take his place, remember then the crane, unused paper still sitting next to the toilet. He chuckles, flushes, and then hurries through his ablutions at the sink.

Charles, wearing Erik's thickest sweater and poncho to block the wind, follows him outside, pausing on the porch to tip his head back, eyes falling shut as he breathes in the cold winter air. It's a breathtaking thing to watch, the line of Charles' throat briefly emerging from beneath his borrowed scarf. He opens his eyes and stares up at the sky.

"Do you know, I just had the most overwhelming urge to fly," he says, glancing over then, amusement shining in his eyes as he catches Erik's gaze.

"It would certainly get us there quicker," Erik says, moving around him, wincing as he steps off the porch and into the snow, still raw from this morning's dream. Charles steps down beside him.

The lawn is still a field of white, though Erik can spot several tracks now, mostly bird. Charles smiles at each, as though his time in avian form has given him an affinity for all winged-creatures. Erik can't help but smile at that; he no longer thinks of the gulls as unwanted pests, Erik smiling when he sees them skirting across the sky.

"I doubt any of them are telepaths in hiding," Charles says, clearing getting the image. Erik chuckles.

It feels so oddly natural to be walking at Charles' side, despite his worries--despite his concern for where they are going. He thought this would change him; would have profound, far-reaching consequences. It doesn't. He feels no different than he did before; only connected in a way he hasn't since he was a child.

He still scans the treeline, senses alert, searching for Hunter or anyone that might think to harm Charles. When he closes his eyes, he still sees blood-stained snow; a crane's bloodied wing.

Charles doesn't seem nearly as concerned. He walks at Erik's side, steps light, hands thrust into his pockets, wide smile spread across his face. The sun is weak ball of pale yellow, half hidden by a thin layer of cloud, but Charles smiles up at it all the same; Erik realizing then that he's undoubtedly missed this freedom. He feels guilty then for trying to talk Charles out of this.

Erik slows their steps as they come down the hillside, the ground slick with snow, Erik descending first and then offering Charles a hand. Charles arches an eyebrow, plainly amused, but he accepts Erik's hand; jumps gracefully to his side, a direct contrast to Erik's slipping and stumbling. Erik's jaw twitches, but Charles doesn't say anything, instead stepping neatly onto the road.

"It looks so different from this perspective," he says, nodding down towards the town, where the tops of the houses are visible, stretched in a semicircle around the harbour. "It looks so much bigger."

Unbidden, the image of Charles as a bird, floating high on the wind, town a tiny, distant cluster of houses comes to his mind. Erik closes his eyes and lets the image resolve into a moving picture, breath catching and heart lodging in his throat as the memory washes over him. He can feel the air rushing around his wings, Erik light and weightless, floating high above the earth as he soars, the scent of sea-air reaching his nose even here.

It is almost disappointing to open his eyes and find himself back on the ground. Erik clears his throat.

"I can see why you'd miss that," he manages. Charles grins.

Charles grows strangely quiet after that, though Erik can tell it is because he is concentrating, deflecting any gaze that happens to fall upon them. Slowly they descend the hill, the town springing up around them, tension creeping in between Erik's shoulder blades. He doesn't usually use his powers inside town, but today he catalogues every piece of metal; knows exactly how he might use every spade, every shovel, dozens of weapons at his fingertips. Charles continues to walk placidly at his side, stroll almost casual, though his gaze is narrowed; concentration obvious in the lines marring his forehead.

It's early enough that there's no one about, Raven's store still dark, not yet open. Erik knows she's home, though, light spilling from the upstairs window. He ushers Charles onto her stoop; knocks against the wood of her door, wincing when the sound carries.

The wait is entirely too long.

She's still dressed for sleep when she appears at the door, as though she's only recently woken, feet slipper-clad and housecoat drawn tight. Her hair is pulled back into a loose ponytail, wisps of it framing her face. Her eyes grow wide when she sees him.

She glances then to Charles, but a second later her gaze slides past, staring out over Erik's shoulder. She glances back to Erik's face.

"Is everything all right? Has something happened?" she asks. Erik realizes then he's no doubt wearing his apprehension. He forces himself to relax.

"I'm out of muesli," he says, Raven's eyes going impossibly wide. Indecision plays across her features, eventually settling as amusement, a smirk spreading across her mouth. She steps back and opens the door.

Erik steps inside.

It's strange standing inside Raven's store--still dark--with Charles at his side. Raven moves around behind the counter. She flips a couple of switches against the back wall, light flooding the store.

"I think I might have another box," Raven says, coming back around. She gestures over her shoulder. Erik nods and then turns to catch Charles' eye. He finds him grinning. Erik frowns.

 _She likes you_ , Charles says into his mind. Erik has to fight not to scoff.

 _And I like you, so make your call so we can go_ , Erik thinks back, the first time he's tried this so he has no idea if it actually gets across. It must, because Charles nods and turns towards the telephone. Erik follows Raven to the back of the store.

"I wouldn't have pictured you for a muesli kind of guy," she says, handing over what it obviously her last box. There's no missing the flirtation in her voice, guilt surging in Erik's chest.

"I've developed a taste for it," he says, brisk and to the point, hoping she'll get the point.

She seems to, because she nods, expression both understanding and amused, like she's never actually expected Erik to reciprocate her interest; like she doesn't particularly mind. It does wonders to alleviate his discomfort.

"Do you want me to order more? I could order a few boxes with my spring shipment."

He's halfway to saying yes before he realizes there is a good chance he won't be here come spring. It's the first time it's struck him, the possibility of leaving this place, however much he's thought about--planned for it. He may not be interested in Raven--not in the way she wants--but he'll miss her.

"That's okay, I'm sure it's just a passing fancy," Erik says, voice thick with emotion.

Raven smiles and then glances over his shoulder, mouth tugging into a frown before her eyes glaze, artificial smile snapping back into place. "Is there anything else?" she asks.

Erik twists; finds Charles standing at his back. He turns back to Raven, finds her watching him, oblivious now to the second man in her store. Erik swallows, overcome then by the knowledge of just what Charles can do. It is a terrifying thing to witness first-hand.

"I'll take some more bread, too, if you've got it," Erik says. Raven nods. He waits until she's slipped away to turn back to Charles.

"Taken care of?" he asks. Charles nods and then steps into Erik's space, Erik frozen in place, wanting then to flee; to step forward and drag Charles into his arms. His heart races with the prospect of doing the second, Raven due to return at any moment, Charles' telepathy or no telepathy.

"I'll have money waiting for me in Bergen when we're ready, and someone will open the house."

It's hard to find an answer to that--hard to think when Charles is standing so near. There's something in the way that Charles is looking at him now, like he wants to take Erik against the back shelves, Erik shivering at the thought.

"Well, perhaps not that, though I must confess, I rather feel like marking my territory."

It takes Erik a second to realize what he's talking about, Erik barking a laugh then. "I can assure you, you don't need to worry about Raven," he says, though he cannot quite help the flush of pleasure that comes with knowing Charles might be jealous; might feel threatened.

"Good to know," Charles says, hesitating then, clear indecision playing across his face. He tilts his head then, as though listening, though Erik knows it's his telepathy he's using. He catches Erik's eye, nods and then takes a step back, disappearing between two shelves. Raven returns with a loaf of bread. She hands it over, the bread still hot.

"Thank you," he says, letting Raven lead him to the register, paying with exact change because he doubts she's had time to stock her register.

Charles is waiting for him outside when he's done. Erik hands over the muesli.

They don't talk, Charles obviously still concentrating, keeping anyone who glances in their direction from seeing him, removing any thought to question the two sets of footprints leading to and from Erik's cabin. The sky has grown thick with clouds during their time in Raven's store, more snow on the horizon so it's only a matter of time before they're covered over. Erik still takes care to scuff his tracks on the way back, Charles doing the same. Where the path deviates from the road, Charles scrambles up first, extending Erik a hand this time, Erik chuckling under his breath before he accepts it.

"She's been flirting with your boss, too," Charles says when they set off again, walking side by side, Erik no longer concerned about their tracks. Every brush of Charles' shoulder against his own sends sparks of pleasure racing down his spine.

"Azazel?" Erik asks, surprised.

"I believe that's his name, yes."

Erik glances over at that; finds Charles grinning. He shakes his head, feeling a little lighter for it. 

"They'd be a good fit," he says, skirting around the edge of a rock, still scanning the ground for misplaced footsteps, but apparently Hunter really has gone into hiding, because there is nothing; not even a stray fox print.

"Precognition is not one of my talents, but she seems fond of him," Charles says, stuttering then to a dead stop, Erik doing the same, gaze still locked on Charles' profile, confusion spiking alongside panic as he watches the colour drain from Charles' face.

"What is it?" he asks, but he's already turning to look; seeing then the cabin in the distance, front door clearly open, the front shutter hanging askew.

He starts running then, headless of Charles' cries, senses alert as he scans for any trace of metal. He finds nothing, but instantly he can tell the contents of his cabin have been moved, nothing where it usually is. Erik leaps up onto the porch and crashes through the door, already preparing to strike.

Except, he finds no one, the cabin empty, though its contents have been trashed, debris and litter lining the floor, furniture toppled and dishes shattered. Smoke rises from a back corner, Erik grabbing the kettle off the back of the stove and rushing there first, finding a single ember from the fire, smoking against the floorboards. It hasn't had time to catch, this newly done, Erik dumping the remnants of the water on it, steam hissing up; the ember growing dark.

"Oh, Erik," Charles says, Erik turning then to find Charles standing in the doorway, box of muesli clutched to his chest. Erik glances down and finds Raven's loaf of bread held to his own breast, badly battered in his panic. He moves to the kitchen and sets it down on the counter, the table having been knocked over. Next to a chair, amongst the clutter, his rifle has been emptied of its cartridges. Erik can feel them scattered throughout the room. He eyes the one nearest the table and then follows the trail of mess that leads to his bed. Erik's gaze catches on a watch gear.

Next to the bed, his trunk is open, blankets strewn about the floor, Erik spotting his tin knocked open, its contents spilled across the floor. In his mind, he sees his mother's cedar box, smashed and broken against the floor, Nazis bootprints trampled across its pieces.

He moves immediately to its side, crouching to lift it, Erik finding everything but the crane's feather. He glances up then and catches Charles' eye, rage colouring his vision.

"Erik," Charles says, sounding oddly terrified, but Erik can barely hear, his powers surging out, catching a hint of metal moving towards the east shore.

"Erik," Charles says again, sounding panicked this time, but Erik is already moving, rifle and shells coming to his hand as he sprints out the door; across the white expanse of his lawn, still devoid of  
tracks.


	19. Chapter 19

The hint of metal is still moving away; moving fast by Erik's guess. Erik's still faster, sprinting now, flying across the lawn, skirting rocks and leaping over any obstacle that gets in his way. He's dimly aware of Charles shouting--calling Erik's name--but he's too close to pay Charles any heed, Hunter out there, Erik sick of waiting.

He's halfway to the treeline when his steps grow sluggish, mind hazy in exactly the same way it was when Charles demonstrated his ability to commandeer bodies. Rage spikes at the intrusion, Erik lashing out; pushing back even as he springs shields into place, acting more from instinct than Charles' teachings. He feels Charles fall away, the last traces of his thoughts coloured with shock and a pleading that speaks to Charles' desperation--his naivety.

But Erik is not naive. He will not allow this to continue. Hunter is beyond saving; beyond Charles' mercy. Erik will hunt him down and destroy him before he can harm a single hair on Charles' head.

Sparse outcrops of trees spring up around him now, the landscape changing to rock; the snow growing thicker. Erik struggles through it, though it doesn't impede his progress--not really. He skirts past where he found the crane, blood washed away by the rain, covered over by a new layer of snow. He passes the line of his traps, long since dismantled. He swings towards the fjord, east of the village, the rocky shoreline sparse and uninhabited. The hint of metal is closer.

And it's slowing down, Hunter out of options. Without a boat there is little he can do save contend with the rugged landscape of rural Norway. Erik sees again the shattered remains of his mother's chest; sees his tin knocked open, yellow star fallen to the floorboards, stick of gum wet with snow. He sees, too, the crane's feather, as it was on that first day, when he found in laying in the mud, feathers matted together with sticky grey. He remembers that first night, Charles trembling in his arms, blood soaked wing held tight against his body. Nausea creeps up alongside the memory, Erik's focus renewed. He will not allow Charles to come to harm; no matter the cost.

He slips down the side of a rocky shelf, onto lower ground that gradually edges towards the water. The metal is close now; he can practically taste it. It's no longer moving, Hunter lying in wait, Erik slowing as he follows the embankment. The rocky shore is thick with ice, Erik picking his steps carefully, using Hunter's metal as a guide. Water crashes against his side, spraying up to coat Erik in damp, freezing almost instantly, ice crystals forming in his lashes; his eyebrows. Erik scans the path ahead.

A dot of red draws his gaze, Erik keeping his senses locked on Hunter's metal as he crouches in the snow, tiny pearl of blood resting upon the surface. It is newly shed, Hunter undoubtedly injured. Erik narrows his gaze.

The hint of metal is just ahead--an arrow tip, he's almost certain--no longer moving, sheltered by an outcrop of rock and the low-lying brush. Erik lets his power run across it; feels then its bevelled edges, the sharp file of its point. He can feel no other metal in the vicinity, save the veins running through the ground and the metal he has on his person; his rifle. He reaches for the arrow's tip, meaning then to pluck it away, deprive Hunter of its use, except, when he pulls it forward, it brings along with it a hare, wounded and shivering.

The animal is frozen in terror, its hind leg pierced clean through; blood streaming from the wound to mat against its fur. Its chest heaves, eyes wide and rolling, froth forming at its mouth. Erik stares at it for several moments before realizing what's happened.

_Charles._

He remembers then Charles' warning; remembers Charles saying that Hunter hadn't expected to find them together, that he was incapable of challenging them both. Erik's heart freezes, breath lodging in his throat when he realizes what he's done. He releases the hare, the animal too wounded--too terrified--to move. It lies in the snow, awaiting death as surely as Erik has brought death to Charles.

He's running before the thought settles.

He's already tired from his run out, adrenaline displaced by terror. His legs tremble beneath him, footing unstable as he scrambles back up the hill, desperately calling Charles' name in hopes that Charles will hear--will respond. It is harder going up than it was coming down, but Erik's driven by his fear, continuing on when he might otherwise falter.

Fool, he thinks, and then calls himself one twice over. Time seems to have slowed to a crawl, each minute lasting an eternity, Erik feeling stuck in quicksand, steps laboured, movements drawn out and sluggish. He fights to get up the side of the hill, ground slick with snow, the arrival of true morning bringing with it flurries that obscure his vision and impede his progress. Tears spring in Erik's eyes. They add to the frost obscuring his vision.

He's only known Charles a short time, but already Charles is the most important person in Erik's life. He has never met anyone like him--never met anyone who's made him feel normal; wanted. To lose that now would mean death; of that he is sure. He would sacrifice himself a thousand times over to avenge Charles' death. The thought of it leaves him sick and aching, Erik still struggling in the snow.

What seems an eternity later he passes the place where his trap line begins, Erik quickening his pace, though he still feels trapped in sand, energy entirely drained by the time he reaches the place where he found the crane. He almost expects to find Charles there, sprawled across the snow, white on white, blood pooled beneath him as wide blue eyes stare unseeing at the sky above.

He staggers then, image so real he's half convinced Charles is really there, Erik's entire world ending in a single morning. Never again, he vowed, and yet he has led Charles to the slaughter; has failed yet again.

Erik blinks and the scene vanishes, only snow remaining, unmarred by blood, the crane's indentation long since vanished. Erik starts moving again.

The trees grow closer, Erik breathless by the time he emerges from their line and into his lawn, gaze searching frantically for Charles. He doesn't see him; panic surging once more, Erik casting desperately ahead in hopes of finding something. Anything.

There, he thinks, drawn by the familiar feel of the eyelets in Charles' borrowed boots. Erik charges forward, no longer concerned for his safety; no longer concerned for finding Hunter. He wants only to find Charles safe. He would give anything for a single smile; anything to have Charles reprimand him for his haste.

He lets the pull of Charles' eyelets guide him, past the shed and around the side of the cabin, Erik rounding the back, the hum of the generator filling his ears, blocking out the sound of his shout, Charles' name hoarse on his tongue.

He sees the blood before he sees anything else, Erik's gaze inexorably drawn to it. He steps forward, hand reaching out even as he watches Charles reach for the arrow now piercing his arm--the same arm from before, though this time the arrow has hit true, Charles' clasping a hand to his shoulder, trying desperately to stymie the bleeding.

Rage rises up to wash away Erik's horror, Erik's attention skittering past Charles; to the man standing before him, expression blank as he stares Charles down. Neither has noticed him yet, Erik using that to his advantage.

He lifts his rifle, the motion fluid, Erik driven by his need to protect Charles; to save him. It is an easy thing to find the man's heart in the rifle sight, even amidst the swirling snow. It is an easy thing to slowly pull back on the trigger, the roar of the rifle louder even than the generator. He can feel the bullet leave the rifle's chamber; feel it travel along the rifle's barrel and erupt into the air. It cuts across the space between Erik and Hunter, travelling straight and true, the trajectory perfectly calculated. Hunter doesn't glance up as the bullet hits home.

Erik lowers the rifle, ears still ringing, and watches as Hunter staggers back, eyes growing dim as the bullet pierces his heart; his body crumpling to the ground.

Several long seconds pass before Erik realizes Charles has fallen too.

Erik's moving as soon as it registers; rifle falling to the ground, vanishing into the snow as he darts to Charles' side, catching him in his arms. He helps lower Charles to the ground, the look of horror written across Charles' features almost too much to bear.

"It's all right, he's gone," Erik says, scanning Charles then for any additional injuries, but aside from Hunter's arrow, he appears unharmed. Relief floods him instantly, Erik glancing up to catch Charles' eyes.

His horror hasn't vanished. He's staring at Erik like he's never seen him before; like he cannot fathom what Erik has just done. Erik narrows his gaze at that, because he told Charles he wouldn't spare Hunter if he proved a threat, and look at what he's done.

He doesn't say as much, but then, he probably doesn't have to.

"Oh, Erik," Charles says, face criss-crossed with lines, deep, dark circles hanging low beneath his eyes, his skin washed through with grey, bruise a startling purple. Erik frowns. He glances back to Hunter, body splayed across the snow, blood pooling beneath him.

In his mind's eye, he sees Charles, broken and bleeding in the snow. Erik glances back; finds Charles watching him, defeat written in the slump of his shoulders.

"I was protecting you, don't you see that?" He wants so desperately for Charles to understand. "All I ever wanted to do was keep you safe."

Charles lip quivers, even as he glances between Hunter and Erik, his eyes wide and watery. He looks more pained than Erik can ever remember seeing him.

"I had him, Erik. I had him," he says, a soft whisper that Erik has to strain to hear.

It takes Erik several seconds to process what he means by that. When he does, his hand begins to shake, even as his stomach lurches, the thought of Charles inside Hunter's mind--inside Hunter's body--when Erik shot him almost too much to bear. Erik shakes his head, trying to deny Charles' words.

"He shot you," he says, frantic now, because this will mark the end, of that he is sure. Charles will leave him now; will cast Erik aside, name him as the monster he is. Why he ever thought he might be worthy of this, Erik doesn't know.

He moves to pull away. Charles' hand on his arm stops him.

Erik expects him to speak, to reject Erik entirely, but he says nothing, lip still quivering, eyes welling over now. His entire countenance is filled with anguish. Guilt and anger and self-loathing strike in Erik's breast, Erik suffocating under their weight. He keeps his expression blank, jaw clenched, eyes hard as he awaits Charles' denunciation.

It doesn't come.

Instead Charles catches his lip between his teeth, shaking his head as he draws Erik near, Erik wavering, jaw twitching as he sinks forward. Charles turns his face into the side of Erik's neck; presses his nose firm against Erik's jugular, his tears burning like fire along the length of Erik's skin. Erik's breath hitches, a sob rising unbidden from his throat. He swallows it down, but it is too late. He reaches out then to draw Charles nearer; clutching him to his chest.

"I wanted to keep you," he says into Charles' hair. Charles fingers curl against his coat, drawing Erik closer.

Erik loses track of how long they stay like that, Charles burrowed against him, a warm comfortable weight that Erik would do anything to keep. When Charles eventually does pull away--too soon--Erik has to fight against the instinct to pull him back; to delay this moment as long as possible.

It is for nothing. Charles glances up to meet his gaze. Erik steels himself for the final blow.

"We need to contact the police," Charles says, the last thing Erik expected him to say. He frowns, but before he can ask, Charles continues, "We can't just leave, Erik. We need to contact the authorities."

Erik shakes his head, but it is hard to protest when Charles is talking about them leaving, together.

"You still want me to come with you?" he asks, hating the traitorous spark of hope that lights at the thought. Confusion colours Charles' expression.

"Of course I do, how could think...?"

"You know what I think. You always know what I think," is as far as Erik gets before Charles is shaking his head.

"You still have me blocked," he says, Erik realizing then that it's true; that he hasn't released his shields; not since he darted off after a decoy arrow.

He drops them now, the feel of Charles filling his mind enough to trigger another sob. The shock of its warmth is so delightful that Erik grasps for it; clinging then to Charles' steady presence. He had no idea how much of their connection was tangible.

Charles is staring at him now, eyes wide. He shakes his head, squeezing the hand still wrapped around Erik's arm, directly over his hated tattoo, but even that can't distract Erik from the warmth in Charles' gaze.

"I would never cast you aside, Erik. Not for this; not for anything. Yes, I wish this hadn't happened, but you didn't know. You thought you were protecting me."

He nods then to Hunter, still spread across the snow, the flurries having left a light dusting across his torso. In another few hours, he will be covered over entirely. They could easily leave; no one will find him until spring.

Erik glances back to Charles and finds him shaking his head. "We can't leave him. I'm sorry, but we can't. But the police are looking for him--he's killed two people--and he came onto your property, threatened you and your guest. He shot your guest. The police will see it as self defense. I promise you that."

Charles sounds so certain; so utterly convinced--and Erik has no doubt that he is--that Erik can do little save nod. It is clear this is a line Charles has drawn and Erik is unwilling to cross it, not if it means losing him. He stands then, ignoring Hunter in favour of extending Charles a hand. Charles accepts it, expression still distraught as he rises to his feet, injured arm held tight against his body. He glances once in Hunter's direction, and then turns to pick his way back to the cabin.

Erik pauses only to retrieve his rifle; and then follows Charles inside.

~*~

_Epilogue_

Bergen is a larger city than he's grown used to; larger certainly than he's been in some time. He didn't really notice during his incarceration, however brief--though even the time he spent in custody felt a lifetime, concrete walls and iron bars triggering far too many memories. He notices its size now.

He feels exposed stepping out of the courthouse, buildings looming around him, the glare of sunlight on concrete making him wince; draw back in an attempt to shield his eyes. He blinks several times until Charles comes into view, Erik still not used to seeing him in anything other than Erik's clothes.

"I'm sorry that took so long," he says, coming to stand inside Erik's space, arm still in a sling. He scans Erik's face, though Erik can only guess at what he's looking for. Erik has seen him every day during this ordeal--and yet this is the first time there has been nothing between them, Erik wanting desperately to touch.

The city precludes it, Charles incapable of blocking so many minds.

"Come on then," Charles says. He leads Erik down the courthouse steps, onto the sidewalk where a car is waiting to take them wherever it is Charles intends to take them. Erik is too numb to consider that now; he hasn't given much thought to anything these past few weeks, save surviving and not tearing apart his holding cell, metal bars far too seductive for a man trapped behind them with the ghosts of his childhood.

He's wearing the same clothes he was wearing when the police arrived at his cabin, Erik leaving with them voluntarily. They fit awkwardly, Erik having gained weight; not too much, but his time has been spent in idle sitting, Erik used to a life of labour. It feels nice to have his arms covered, his sweater hanging well past his wrists, poking out from the sleeves of his coat. Erik pulls the fabric down until it covers his knuckles, thumb tucked inside. He's had far too many people stare at his tattoo these recent weeks. He hates the pity that flashes in their eyes.

It's not until he's fitted in the backseat, Charles tucked at his side, that he realizes Charles is not alone. Raven is driving the car, at her side Azazel, Erik momentarily stunned by their presence.

"I'm afraid I don't drive," Charles says. "Also, we have to make part of the journey by boat."

"Everyone's been asking after you," Raven says, speaking into her rear-view mirror. Erik has no idea where she got the car, or even how they managed to get here. He feels completely removed from the everyday happenings of what was once his life. "We were going to start a pool to hire you a really good lawyer, but your cousin had already taken care of it."

It takes Erik several seconds to figure out she's talking about Charles, Erik not quite sure what to make of that. He glances over, catching Charles' eye, but Charles merely shrugs; turns then to stare out the window.

 _It seemed easier_ , he says into Erik's mind, warm weight blanketing the worst of Erik's anxiety. He relaxes back into his seat; watches the city pass by his window.

The car, it turns out, is borrowed, one of Raven's suppliers located in Bergen, the car his. She parks it outside a warehouse near the city docks, Erik hesitating briefly before following Charles out of the car.

The first thing that catches his attention is the scent of sea air, Erik having missed it. He breathes deep; lets its salt coat his lungs. Next is the cry of gulls, Erik glancing down the long line of Bergen's docks, the city far more industrial than anything he's seen recently. The gulls seem not to notice; they swoop and dive amongst the freighters and tankers as easily as they do the trawlers. Erik moves to the water's edge; feels then something catch in his chest, a pang of loneliness that belongs entirely to this place.

He is going to miss it.

"We don't have to leave," Charles says, appearing at his shoulder, speaking under his breath so that Azazel and Raven don't hear. Erik still glances over his shoulder at them; finds them standing entirely too close. He turns back to Charles.

"Actually, I think we do," he says. Charles smiles, though there is nothing of joy in it; it is simply acceptance and the anticipation of a looming future. Erik returns the smile.

"This isn't something I want to do again," Charles says then, gesturing. Erik follows his gaze, finding Azazel's trawler secured amongst several of the larger ships a little ways down the dock. The sight surprises a bark of a laugh. "I'm serious. If I never get on another boat it'll be too soon."

Charles doesn't wait for a response this time, setting off, Erik following on his heel, Azazel and Raven already climbing on board.

It is still the dead of winter, the seas still rougher than Azazel's little trawler should allow, but the waters are calm today, the ocean dark and still, Azazel's boat easily cutting across it. He hasn't repaired the damage from the storm, but it isn't as bad as Erik first feared, her metal strong; made stronger by Erik's powers, Erik reveling in extending them out, encircling her in their protective shell. The task feels so much easier than it once did.

Charles doesn't do much sailing, hiding away inside the cabin. Erik watches him through the window; sees him laugh at something Raven says. Azazel is standing at the bow, staring out across the water, his tension entirely drained; more at home here than Erik wagers he is anywhere else. Erik crosses the deck to stand at his side, comfortable silence passing between them as they leave Bergen and travel north; towards the fjord and their tiny fishing village.

The going is smooth, clear winter morning becoming a brilliant afternoon, the air sharp with frost, the chill of the water, when it does spray across the deck, enough to make Erik want to retreat to the cabin; press close to Charles' side. He can't seem to tear his gaze from the open water, though, the journey north passing entirely too quickly; too soon the mouth of the fjord coming into view, Erik surprised by the pang of home that strikes in his breast.

It only gets worse, the trawler moving slowly up the fjord, familiar landmarks jumping out, Erik watching them pass; realizing then it might be for the last time. He has to swallow against a lump in his throat when the village comes into view, scarlet and mustard houses clustered against the shore, the line of the docks filled with boats, the fish still months gone. Erik closes his eyes; feels the metal of Azazel's ship beneath him.

He will miss her, too, he realizes.

Stepping off the trawler and onto the dock is like saying goodbye, Erik incapable of lingering. He has no idea when Charles means for them to leave, but he can't imagine they'll linger long. He's not even really sure why they've even returned, Erik's last glimpse of his cabin a picture of chaos.

Charles appears at his side then, looking perfectly comfortable--as he always does--despite his insistence that sea-travel makes him ill. He gives Erik a tentative smile, slipping up the dock then, Raven stepping up to take his place.

"Your cousin said you'd be going back to America with him," she says, blunt and to the point and so very Raven that Erik cannot help the grin that spreads across his face.

"Have I ever told you that you remind me of my sister?" he asks. Raven's eyes grow wide.

"I didn't even know you had a sister," she says. Erik lets his smile fall away, though talking about Ruth doesn't bring the same spark of pain it once did.

"She was wonderful," he says, turning then to Azazel and offering a hand, Azazel accepting it immediately. His handshake is firm and respectful, though there is emotion in his gaze Erik is unused to seeing.

"She'll miss you," Azazel says, gesturing not to Raven, but the ship, Erik nodding, ever aware of the call of her metal; of the feel of her decks beneath him.

"I'll miss her too," he manages, which is more than he's ever admitted to anyone.

There's little else that needs saying, Erik turning then to take in the harbour, familiar black cliffs looming on the other side of the fjord, the waters still and black. He breathes in the salt air, letting it fill his lungs before exhaling in a rush, turning then to start up the dock, catching up with Charles near its end.

"You do know we have to come back here to leave, right?" Charles says, so utterly ridiculous that Erik can't help but laugh, feeling lighter than he has in some time. He hasn't feared his own liberty--he knows Charles wouldn't have allowed him to face sentencing--but the strain of the past few weeks was getting to him. It was hard enough to be locked away again, Erik woken by more than one nightmare, but he's come to understand Charles' need to keep Hunter alive. There are only two of them now, and while once that might have been enough for Erik, he wants now to find more. Who will Charles turn to if something happens to him? He doesn't want Charles to know what it feels like to be alone.

The walk back to his cabin is achingly familiar, Erik's steps slow, Charles matching pace, as though they have all the time in the world. Erik doesn't mean to linger, but a looming sense of dread now stirs in his breast, Erik not entirely certain he wants to return to the place he's so long called home.

"We don't have to leave, you know," Charles says again, holding up a hand when Erik goes to protest. "I mean, now. We can stay a few days or a few weeks or even a few months. We can stay until the spring, or go tomorrow. It's entirely up to you."

"We should go before the weather turns," Erik says, surprised they managed to get him into Bergen, let alone out again. They've been lucky so far, but that could change any day.

Charles stops walking then, right at the spot where the path leaves the road, his hand coming out to catch Erik's wrist.

"We can spare a day," he says, Erik nodding.

They start up the path then, skirting the rock, Erik still scanning for footprints, despite knowing Hunter is gone. Charles has filled him in on what he could and Erik was there when they took away the body and combed his cabin for evidence, turning Hunter's mess into a disaster. He has no idea what it looks like now. Charles has spent most of the past few weeks in Bergen.

They crest a hill, the cabin coming into view, seeming idyllic in the soft light of fading day. The newly fallen snow has obliterated the mess the investigation made of his lawn, someone having re-hung and sealed the shutters, the house exactly as Erik might have left it, were this just a normal day coming home from the sea.

"Give me some credit," Charles says, grinning.

Erik climbs onto the porch, resting a hand against the door frame.

"I'll grab the generator," Charles says, slipping around the side of the house before Erik can protest. Erik lets him go, feeling then the cabin's lock, newly replaced, the last mechanism undoubtedly damaged during Hunter's invasion.

Erik flicks it open with his powers and steps inside.

To his surprise, the cabin is entirely put together, tidy and organized, Erik coming to a stop in the middle of the doorway, chest constricting painfully at the sight.

The sound of the generator roaring to life chases away the sensation, Erik crossing to his battered old steamer trunk. He sits down on its edge, fingers caressing its side, its metal as familiar as Azazel's boat. Erik smiles and then slips off his boots.

By the time he's done the pump is running, Charles coming back inside, flipping on the light above the kitchen. It flares to life, bulb flickering, obviously frozen with disuse. The entire cabin feels the same, ensconced in ice, Erik surprised his pipes haven't burst. He crosses then to the woodstove, getting a fire started both familiar and nostalgic. When he's done, he turns back to find Charles standing beside the bed, watching him intently.

"Okay?" he asks.

Erik smiles, a tentative, uncertain thing that grows wider when spots his tin resting on the nightstand, latch firmly closed.

Erik crosses towards it.

Charles sits on the edge of the bed, waiting patiently while Erik opens it, spotting instantly his yellow star; the broken pieces of his arrow. The stick of gum is there too, everything in its place save the crane's feather.

"I never found it," Charles says, sounding oddly forlorn. Erik glances over. "If you want, you can replace it with a lock of my hair. I still need that haircut."

Erik can't help but grin at that, closing his tin and carrying it to the steamer trunk; kneeling to secure it inside. When he's done, he returns to Charles' side, sitting next to him on the bed. Charles immediately reaches out to take Erik's hand.

"I do have something else for you," he says. Erik arches an eyebrow. Charles laughs.

It's a wonderful sound; one Erik doesn't think he'll ever get enough of. He waits patiently as Charles digs into his cardigan pocket, holding out his hand when he's done. Erik glances down, finds his watch, completely whole, resting in Charles' palm.

"How did you?" Erik asks, reaching for it then, floating it between them until it catches between his thumb and his forefinger, Erik turning it to examine it from all sides. Despite expecting it--feeling the turning of its gears--it is still a surprise to flip it open and find it working.

"Ah, well, as much as I'd love to confess to painstakingly putting it back together again, in reality I found a good watchmaker in Bergen."

It's the most ludicrous thing Erik's heard in a long time, but it instantly displaces the last traces of his tension, Erik barking a laugh; dissolving completely into hysterics at Charles' grin.

"You're impossible, do you know that?" he asks when he's able, fond smile settling across his features, Erik stuck then by the warmth of his cabin, the humming of his generator and the scent of wood smoke, all the things he's come to associate with home. He's starting to associate Charles with home, too, especially when Charles is smiling back, looking for all the world like he can't imagine wanting to be anywhere else.

"Come on," Charles says when Erik's settled. He slips from the bed then, tugging on Erik's hand until Erik does the same. "There's not much, but Raven assures me there is salted mackerel and fresh bread for supper. Also, I took the liberty of getting us something decent to drink."

It strikes Erik then that he has no idea how he ended up here. Inside the last month, he's discovered he's not alone, met someone he wants to spend the rest of his life with, killed a man and endured weeks in detainment waiting to be cleared of the charge. In the coming days--or weeks, Erik no longer feeling the urge to rush--he's going to travel to America, where he'll start a new life searching for more of his kind; uniting an entire race.

He's more than a little giddy as he follows Charles into the kitchen, Erik waiting until he has Charles' attention before swooping in for a kiss.

He's not expecting Charles to mind, but relief still buckles his knees when Charles presses into the kiss, kissing Erik back with an edge of desperation Erik knows entirely too well. He can still see the obstacles that stand between them and their goal--that stand between them--but today Erik is feeling rather optimistic.

More importantly, he's feeling like he's come home.

FIN


End file.
